


BarettaVendetta's Football Crackfics

by BarettaVendetta



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bubblegum, Dogs, Eden Hazard's bum, Everton F.C., Goalies, Handcuffed Together, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Millwall F.C., Oral Sex, Parody, Sex Pollen, Sheffield Wednesday F.C., Violence, gratuitous Everton fanservice, managers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 68
Words: 20,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarettaVendetta/pseuds/BarettaVendetta
Summary: A collection of football RPF stuff I posted on FFA, mainly for fun. Not to be taken remotely seriously! Note: I'm an Everton supporter.





	1. Vampires

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: vampires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teams: Everton and Liverpool

Things hadn't been the same in the Everton team ever since Diego Costa had turned Gareth Barry. Now the entire team, save Romelu Lukaku, had become vampires.

Word got around the Premiership. On Derby Day, in the changing room at Anfield, the players chewed on garlic cloves. Philippe Coutinho and Roberto Firmino had made sure to wear crucifixes under their shirts for the Derby. Jurgen Klopp held a prayer circle for the Christian players. 

Simon Mignolet had taken the extra precaution of having his water bottle filled with holy water and, as the goalkeepers went through their warm-ups, he sprinkled it around his six-yard box, in the hope it would deter wayward Everton forwards.

Liverpool would go on to win 4-0.


	2. Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Romelu Lukaku (Everton) x Ross Barkley (Everton)

"You're very quiet today, Ross," said Romelu Lukaku. "What's wrong?"  

Ross Barkley looked at the floor and said nothing.

"Is this about me going to Manchester United? Come on, Ross, it's not like I'm going to the moon. We can still keep in touch, you're on Instagram, right?"

Barkley's eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t want you to go, Rom.”

Lukaku sighed. “Look,” he said, “it’s been great. I’ll miss you guys. But I want Champions’ League football. I’m not going to get it here.” He laid a hand on Barkley’s head and stroked his hair.

Barkley buried his head in Lukaku’s chest and cried.


	3. Bondage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Alan Shearer (Newcastle United) x Kevin Pressman (Sheffield Wednesday)

When Alan Shearer had been told by his Newcastle team mates that they'd brought him a reward for his part in the eight-nil victory over Sheffield Wednesday, and that it would be waiting in the kit room, the last thing he was expecting to find was Sheffield Wednesday's goalkeeper bound, gagged and stripped to the waist. They'd evidently let him keep his shorts and boots on, and his knees were still muddy. Shearer wondered where they'd got the rope and the bandage they'd used for a gag from.

Kevin Pressman had been positioned on the bench with his back against the wall, like a present about to be unwrapped. On seeing the man who had put five goals past him earlier, his small blue eyes widened in terror.

"Well, this is awkward," said Shearer, plonking himself down on the bench next to the incapacitated goalie.

Pressman raised his eyebrows. Then, with some difficulty, he swung his bound feet down from the bench, sat up, and - with some difficulty - slid on his arse towards Shearer. Before Shearer had time to move, Pressman swung his legs back onto the bench and laid his head in Shearer's lap.

"What am I supposed to do with you, exactly?" Shearer asked.

Pressman rolled his eyes and arched his back, and made what Shearer realised was a pelvic thrusting motion. A light went on in the Geordie's mind. "I suppose I'd better untie you," he began, but Pressman rapidly shook his head.

"You want me to fuck you while you're tied up?"

Pressman made an exasperated noise that sounded vaguely like 'YES', and Shearer slid his hand up the goalkeeper's meaty thigh.


	4. Handcuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Jamie Carragher x Gary Neville

Gary Neville wondered what genius had come up with the idea of forcing him and Jamie Carragher to cover the Liverpool and Manchester United match while handcuffed to each other. The fact that Jamie insisted on placing a consoling hand on his knee every time United missed a chance was not helping.

On screen, twenty-five minutes in, Adam Lallana elegantly weaved his way through United’s defence and crossed the ball to Daniel Sturridge, who neatly flicked it into the goal, just out of David de Gea’s reach.

“YES!” shouted Carragher, punching the air and yanking Neville’s arm up with his. Neville yelped and repressed a swear word as the cuff dug into his wrist.

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kevin Pressman x Sheffield Wednesday

Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

I came to this club as a teenager. I saw us win the League Cup. People are still talking about my penalty against Wolves. I've gone from reserve keeper to the number one. Now I'm 35 and kids look up to me. I am fading. We are fading. The Blunts are on top again. And it hurts.

But every save I make against them is worth it. Every goal denied, the feet of the strikers and the ground battering my body. Against the Blunts, I am a fortress. Although sometimes the enemy still gets through the gate.

Sheffield took me into her arms and made me. I've seen countless goalkeepers come and go, but I'm still here. And I will stay for as long as it takes. I may have been born in Hampshire, but I'm Yorkshire now, Wednesday through and through. 

Forever.


	6. Animal Transformation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manager: Jürgen Klopp (Liverpool)

None of the other 19 managers were sure how to react when Jürgen Klopp turned into a German Shepherd dog.

"Alexis," Arsène Wenger said wearily, as Alexis Sanchez ran off the Emirates pitch yet again to pet the Liverpool manager, "please stop doing that."

Ronald Koeman was not remotely bothered. After all, he'd seen Marco van Basten turn into a cat once. To Duncan Ferguson's disgust, he patted Klopp on his furry head and shook his paw.

Pep Guardiola tried to distract him by throwing a stick down the touchline, only for Klopp to growl and bite his leg.

Sean Dyche could not remember the last time he'd seen a dog wag its tail so much.

Jose Mourinho, himself a dog person, brought dog biscuits to Old Trafford when Liverpool came, and dropped them on the touchline.

None of the Liverpool squad minded having a dog for a manager. Alberto Moreno, in particular, was thrilled and decided to bring his bull terrier to training to see if they'd get on. Of course, none of the team could speak dog, but they soon learned.


	7. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Player: Ross Barkley (Everton)

Unbeknown to Ross Barkley, Phil Jagielka had slipped some cheeky tranquillisers in his tea. Dazed and confused, he signed his name on the contract as Farhad Moshiri, Ronald Koeman, and a party of agents looked on. The small print blurred into wavy lines.

If Barkley had been more aware, he would have noticed the evil smile on Koeman's face.

The next day, the British press were full of headlines about how Barkley had promised to stay at Everton until 'his legs gave out'. 

"I'm sorry, Ross," said Jagielka, "but the gaffer made me do it."

"It's for your own good," added the manager. "Now that Romelu is gone, we're going to need you even more."


	8. A Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team: Everton

23 years, as their rivals across the park liked to remind them. 23 years without a trophy...and now they'd finally done it.

History had repeated itself. Yet again, a dejected Manchester United team - this time, led by Chris Smalling instead of Steve Bruce - collected their runners-up medals, Romelu Lukaku wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve and trying not to think that if only he'd stayed, he wouldn't be in that queue.

Then it was Everton's turn.

"YES!" bellowed Phil Jagielka, lifting the FA Cup over his head, Ronald Koeman on one side, Leighton Baines on the other. A cheer went up from the sea of blue, and tears filled Ross Barkley's eyes. Not many kids in Liverpool could say that they'd won the FA Cup for their boyhood team. Yet here they were - Barkley, Baines, Wayne Rooney, Tom Davies - who was jumping up and down like a hyperactive kangaroo - and even the unused subs. 

The boys, to quote their manager, had done good.


	9. Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Player / coach: Tom King (Millwall) and Kevin Pressman (Millwall)

Tottenham six, Millwall nil. Millwall's FA Cup run had finally come to an end. Even though Tottenham were above and beyond Watford and Leicester in terms of quality, it still hurt for Tom King. Over on the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino was shaking the hand of a stone-faced Neil Harris, and King wished the pitch would open and swallow him up.

No goalkeeper likes conceding six goals, after all.

"Tom," said a soft voice behind him. It was Kevin Pressman, the goalkeeping coach. King turned around, shamefaced. He expected a bollocking. Pressman did not mince his words. But instead of the usual coldness, there was concern in the older man's eyes.

"I let in eight once, myself," Pressman said. "Newcastle. Alan Shearer scored five against me. These things happen in football. Learn from it. Learn from it, pick yourself up, and carry on. Every goalkeeper makes mistakes. It's part of being human." 

"Thanks, Kev," said King. He smiled. "I was worried you were going to bollock me."

"Course," Pressman went on, "there are certain things we need to work on. But we can discuss that in training." He laid his arm around King's shoulders. "Let's get you changed."


	10. Weapons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teams: Chelsea and Liverpool

The first Premiership Battle Royale, between Liverpool and Chelsea, was a success. Each team were given weapons and told to 'go nuts'. The winning team would be the one with the most surviving players.

Thibaut Courtois had really wanted an antitank rifle, but had had to settle for a machine gun, and happily mowed down oncoming strikers until James Milner, sneaking up from behind, axed him in the back. Diego Costa stopped sulking and tore out Alberto Moreno's throat with his teeth. Eden Hazard smeared Simon Mignolet's blood on his face as the hapless goalie collapsed to the ground with a bullet wound in his shoulder.

"I bet they don't do this in Barcelona," thought Philippe Coutinho, as he dodged a clumsily-thrown knife from Reuben Loftus-Cheek, and Sadio Mané shot N'golo Kante in the leg with his crossbow. 

A lull in the crowd came. To liven things up, Jürgen Klopp pulled the pin from a grenade with his teeth and lobbed it onto the pitch, where it took off Michy Batshuayi's leg. Blood spattered on Antonio Conte's face and ruined his expensive tie. Annoyed, he responded in kind with a Molotov cocktail.

At the end of the match, only Jordan Henderson, Mané and, amazingly, Dejan Lovren were still standing, the rest of the Liverpool team either wounded or dead, while Gary Cahill, Hazard and Cesar Azpilicueta - albeit minus one eye - were all that remained of the Chelsea squad. It was Liverpool 3, Chelsea 3.

"Personally, I thought Liverpool's defending needed work," commented a disapproving Alan Shearer on Deathmatch Of The Day, as Ian Wright threw up in the background.


	11. Oral Fixation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Roberto Martínez (Everton) x Quique Sanchez Flores (Watford)

While Everton played Watford at Vicarage Road, Quique Sanchez Flores paced nervously up and down the touchline, while Roberto Martinez stood, arms folded, jaw moving up and down, occasionally casting sideways glances at Flores. Flores tried to keep his eyes on the men in yellow, but couldn’t stop thinking about those big dark eyes.

_Pop._

What was that sound?

_Pop._

There it was again, and it was coming from his left. On the pitch, Troy Deeney’s attempt on goal was headed out by Leighton Baines, and a corner was given.

_Pop._

Was Roberto flirting with him again? Was his opposite number trying to put him off his game? Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Martinez looking at him, those lovely big dark eyes wide open, gum-coated tongue poking out. Martinez began to blow.

Flores always found managers’ habit of chewing gum annoying, but he’d never seen one blowing bubbles with it. Blood rushed to his head. He hoped none of the squad had noticed.

_Pop._

Flores jerked his head round to glare at Martinez, as Martinez peeled gum off his nose and popped it back into his mouth.

“Stop doing that,” Flores barked at Martinez.

“Doing what?” asked Martinez, innocently. On the pitch, Gareth Barry scythed down Etienne Capoue.

“You know what, Roberto,” said Flores. He turned his attention to Capoue, who was gingerly picking himself up, while Barry insisted it was a legitimate tackle.

“Call me Bob,” said Martinez, and blew another bubble. Flores groaned. The referee pulled out a yellow card.


	12. Mail Order Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Manchester United x Zlatan Ibrahimovic

Manchester United was rudely awoken by the sound of the doorbell at the Carrington training complex ringing. She yawned, untangled her forked tail, and ran to the door to find an enormous cardboard box, eight feet long at the very least, with a note attached.  
  
_Dear MUFC and Jose,_  
  
_A present from Sweden. Please handle with care._  
  
Carefully, she tore through the tape sealing the top and side of the box with a talon. The urge to stick her pitchfork in it was strong, but she had a feeling there was a living creature inside of it. And she had ordered a certain beloved possession back from Scandinavia.   
  
She was right. The first thing she saw was a familiar face looking up at her from a bed of polystyrene bits.  
  
"I'm home, baby," said Zlatan Ibrahimovic.  
  
Manchester United smiled.  
  
"I've missed you so much, Zlatan."


	13. Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cast: the EPL managers of 16-17

It was playtime in the English Premier League Infants, and Jose was bored.

He’d already stolen Fat Rafa’s dinner money, pulled Toni’s hair and started a rumour that Poch, the shy little Argentinian, had lice. Normally he would have annoyed Arsène, but Arsène was getting harder to wind up and just ignored him, and the new German kid with the glasses couldn’t be touched because Jürgen kept sticking up for him. He settled for throwing an apple core at Sparky. Annoyed, the Welsh boy responded by dumping a bucket full of sand over his head.

Meanwhile, Slav, Eddie, Sean, Chris and Marco were playing with their Action Men, Tony had fallen asleep again, and Toni had taken command of the sand pit and was refusing to let anyone in unless they gave him their football cards. Pep sat quietly in the corner, sucking his thumb and wondering how long it would be before anyone found out he and Ronnie had weed in the sandpit.


	14. Sex Pollen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: the entire Everton team x each other. And Ronald Koeman.

Duncan Ferguson had no idea what was in the air in Everton’s Netherlands training camp, but it had to be something. The team – and the other coaches – were all behaving very oddly. He wondered if it was something to do with the strange yellow cloud that had been hovering in the air and settling on the grass while they were training.

The trouble had begun when he’d caught Kevin Mirallas having a wank in the toilets. Mirallas didn’t even seem bothered – he’d just smiled, said “Hi Dunc,” and carried on with what he was doing. Then he’d walked into one of the changing rooms and found Joel Robles fisting Ramiro Funes Mori, with Morgan Schneiderlin filming them. Joel waved with his free hand. The very thought of it made Ferguson wince.

“Ah cannae cope wi’ this,” thought the first team coach. He’d already seen Patrick Lodewijks, the goalkeeping coach, and Maarten Stekelenburg emerging from the showers, hand in hand and looking very happy, and Phil Jagielka and Leighton Baines at it like rabbits in the six yard box of one of the goals. And then there had been the game of soggy biscuit that Idrissa Gueye, Ashley Williams and some of the juniors were playing, smack bang in the middle of the pitch…with Ross Barkley as the ‘biscuit’. Barkley lay happily on the floor as the players showered him with jizz.

Nothing like this had ever happened in Ferguson’s day.

He walked past the medical room and heard an Irish voice moaning, “Oh yes, oh Jimmy.” He looked through the window and saw Seamus Coleman lying on the bed, James McCarthy’s head between his legs. 

Ferguson decided there was one thing for it. He stormed into the players’ hotel and knocked on the door of Ronald Koeman’s room. Jonjoe Kenny answered. He had a towel wrapped round his waist.

“Erm…Dunc…” he stammered, “I don’t think this is a good time.” Ferguson pushed past him and was confronted by the sight of the Everton manager in bed, smoking a spliff, with Mason Holgate on one side and a sleeping Tom Davies on the other. Judging by the pile of boxer shorts on the floor, all three of them were naked.

“Come to join in?” Koeman asked. “You’ll have to excuse the boy, he’s a bit tired.”

“Were ye all daein’ what Ah think ye were daein’?” asked Ferguson.

“These three came in and asked if I fancied a shag,” said Koeman, and he patted Holgate fondly on the head. “So I fucked them all. And this boy” – he pointed at Kenny – “he gives good head. I haven’t been sucked off like that since I was at Ajax.”

“Guid grief,” moaned Ferguson. He was a teetotaler, but there was only one thing for him left to do. Get hammered.


	15. Toto's 'Africa'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Players: Jamie Carragher and Gary Neville

The Sky pundits were preparing for the Liverpool match. Or at least Matt Le Tissier and Gary Neville were, as Jamie Carragher was distracted by the sound of the soft rock band Toto's hit single Africa playing from somewhere else in the building.

"Will you please turn that shite off?" Carragher snapped. "I'm trying to read my notes."

"It wasn't me, Jamie," Neville protested. "I don't even like Toto."

Carragher side-eyed him. Neville suddenly took an interest in the floor.

Neither of them noticed Le Tissier playing with his iPod in the corner.

Le Tissier smiled. His plan to annoy Carragher was working.

He was going to put Rick Astley on once Toto had finished.


	16. Rivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Jamie Carragher x Gary Neville. If you've read 'Romeo & Juliet' and/or done it for GCSE English, you'll recognise this one...

Two players, both alike in dignity  
At fair Old Trafford, where we lay our scene  
Where Liverpool meet Man United FC  
Where soggy pitch makes keepers' gloves unclean.  
From these two teams, both of whom play in red,  
A pair of star-crossed lovers bear the names  
Of Gary Neville, one club man from toes to head,  
And Bootle's good son, one Carragher, James.  
The fearful passage of their northern love  
Continues on Twitter and Sports of Sky,  
Their banter must not ever be removed  
And Neville says, "United 'till I die.  
Now let us turn our eyes towards the pitch  
For Jose has brought on Ibrahimovic."


	17. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Player: Kevin Pressman (Sheffield Wednesday). This is based on a true story.

Adrenaline makes people do strange things. Things they wouldn't dream of doing under normal circumstances.

It is an adrenaline rush to Kevin Pressman's head that sends him running after the thief who crashed his car.

It is morning in Chesterfield. Pressman's wife and children are at home. It is his wife's car he has driven in to catch the thief; his own car is now a wreck in a ditch. It was when he checked to see if the occupants were OK that the thief got out, and Pressman's adrenaline kicked in. It suddenly occurs to him that, although he has his phone with him, and he has no idea who he is up against. For all he knows, the thief could be packing heat. He could be packing a blade. Pressman could die here.

_Will I come back alive?_

Pressman cannot remember the last time he has run so fast. Nor can he remember the last time he was so frightened. No match, not even the cup ones, not even the derbies, or the one where a crazed Millwall fan threatened to kill him, and he had calmly faced the fan down and even thrown in a dig at his weight. But this is different. Some would call him insane to risk his life over a car.

Sweat is pouring off his body. He grits his teeth and pushes himself. He's the first to admit he's not someone who gives up easily. 

The gap is closing.

_You can do this, Kevin. Don't stop. Get your head down._

Pressman's body is beginning to feel the strain. Pain rips through his calves and thighs. His breath is coming in little gasps. Breathing hurts. Everything hurts. But his sense of justice and his sheer bloody-mindedness outweigh the pain and the fear.

The thief is in sight, and as though on autopilot, Pressman lunges at him and pins him to the ground, making one of the best saves of his life.

"Got you."


	18. Non Sequiturs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Player: Eden Hazard (Chelsea)

"...and if you look at Alderweireld's arm there," said Jermaine Jenas, "it's clearly not an intentional handball, despite what Conte says." 

"I think," said Rio Ferdinand, "that Eden Hazard has an amazing arse."

Gary Lineker and the other pundits stared at him.

"Well, it's true," said Ferdinand defensively. "He does." An image of Hazard with his back to the camera flashed up on the screen. Ferdinand pointed towards the image. "Look at those fine Belgian buns. I mean, how does he get them like that, Gary? Does he have a personal arse trainer?" Another image of Hazard, bending over this time, appeared. "You could bounce a coin off it."

"Eden Hazard's arse doesn't do it for me, personally," said Lineker. "Now Romelu Lukaku, on the other hand..."

Alan Shearer buried his head in his hands.


	19. Refusing to Quit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managers: Jose Mourinho (Manchester United) and Mark Hughes (Stoke City)

Stoke City were playing Manchester United, and Mark Hughes had an eerie feeling that someone was standing right behind him. He found out the hard way that he was correct when Jose Mourinho - for it was he - poked him in the arm.

Hughes ignored him, so Mourinho did it again.

And again.

And again.

Hughes' icy facade was beginning to crack. Several United fans, and Jesse Lingard on the bench, reached for their phones and began filming their manager annoying their former striker. By this point, Mourinho's face was millimetres away from Hughes' back.

"Fuck off, you Portuguese twat," Hughes snapped. 

Mourinho smiled.

"No."


	20. Sucking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kevin Pressman (Millwall) x Jordan Archer (Millwall)

It all began with Sheffield United.

Jordan Archer knew how much Kevin Pressman hated them, but he certainly did not expect Pressman to take him aside and tell him, "If we beat the Blunts and you keep a clean sheet, I'm all yours." Archer knew that Pressman was a man of his word. Sure enough, when Millwall had beaten Sheffield United 3-0, he had received a text telling him to come back to Pressman's London flat, and two hours later, there they were, and Archer was lying naked on the bed with his cock in the goalkeeping coach's wide mouth.

Archer had sucked Pressman off before, all the Millwall goalkeepers had at some point, but it was the first time Pressman had given him a blow job. Archer placed his hands on Pressman's dirty blond head, now rapidly turning to silver, as the older man sucked and sucked, on his knees at Archer's side with Archer's cock in his mouth and down his throat, and not once did he gag, in fact Archer felt as though Pressman would suck his entire body into his mouth and swallow him whole. He moaned loudly. He didn't care who heard him, Pressman was barely coming up for air, his tongue was curling around the shaft and oh God Archer was going to come any minute now, he could not hold it in any longer, and then he felt as though his body were turning inside out as he came in Pressman's mouth, and Pressman swallowed the lot, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and ran his tongue up Archer's thigh for good measure. Archer lay spent on the bed.

He would happily down any striker in his path and keep David Forde out of the team forever if it meant more of this.

Apropos of nothing, Pressman took a condom out of its wrapper, put the opening into his mouth and blew it up. Archer laughed. Pressman let the air out of the condom, and collapsed onto the bed next to Archer and stroked the younger man's beard. The two goalkeepers lay in each other's arms.

"I can't believe you actually swallowed," Archer blurted.

Pressman sighed. "Jordan," he said, "I've had lots of practice. When I was playing for Wednesday, I sucked off the entire team. Several times, in fact." He smiled. "David Hirst was my favourite."

"You're a legend, Kev," said Archer, and he shut his eyes. Pressman kissed the top of his head.


	21. Hair Brushing and Hero Worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Player: Zlatan Ibrahimovic

"I'm not sure I approve of this," said Rui Faria, Manchester United's assistant manager, in Portuguese as he and Jose Mourinho watched the squad in the changing rooms at Carrington. 

"Approve of what?" asked Mourinho. Faria nodded towards Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who was sitting on a bench in the middle of the room, a towel wrapped round his waist, with Marcus Rashford behind him, brushing his long dark hair. Rashford was frowning in concentration, taking care not to accidentally jerk his head back. At Ibrahimovic's feet, Jesse Lingard was polishing his boots, and Phil Jones nipped over to hand him a newly filled water bottle. Luke Shaw and Cal Borthwick-Jackson looked on. To a casual observer, it would seem that he had the team under his thumb, or at least the younger and more impressionable players.

"I think it's good," said Mourinho. "He is a good influence on the younger players. They can learn from him."

Faria was uneasy. "I don't think Sir Alex Ferguson would have approved of this."

"Fuck Ferguson," said Mourinho. "It is my club now, not his."

Rashford was meticulously running a brush through the ends of Ibrahimovic's hair. He bent over and said something in Ibrahimovic's ear, and the big striker nodded. Rashford's face lit up. To Faria, he looked like a child opening his Christmas presents.


	22. Managerial Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Zlatan Ibrahimovic (Manchester United) x Ronald Koeman (Everton)

As Tom Davies was walking down the tunnel at Old Trafford in search of the toilets, he heard some very heavy breathing and what sounded like someone moaning 'oh yesh, oh yesh' behind the door of the manager's office. Curiosity got the better of him, and without thinking to knock, he opened the door.

He wished he hadn't.

He was greeted by a terrifying sight. Ronald Koeman was sitting on the desk, which had been shoved up against a wall. Koeman was sitting on the desk with his back to the wall, blindfolded with his tie, his shirt undone, naked from the waist down, and his hands loosely tied behind his back with a belt. His face was even redder than usual. A naked Zlatan Ibrahimovic was straddling him. Davies felt as though his stomach had just plummeted down a lift shaft.

"Boss?" Davies said. It came out sounding like a strangled squeak. 

"Oh, hi, Tom," said Koeman. He did not seem at all bothered that one of his players had literally caught him with his pants down. Ibrahimovic looked over his shoulder and smiled.

"What the hell are you doing?" yelped Davies.

"Your manager," said Ibrahimovic, calmly.


	23. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team: Everton

Gareth Barry had never realised until recently just how much he loved the taste of blood.

He was crouched down on the floor with Roberto Martinez's right wrist in his mouth, while Tom Cleverley had taken his left wrist and Phil Jagielka, as club captain, had targeted his neck. Joel Robles stood with his back to the door, listening for interruptions. Blood flowed thick and fast from the hole Barry had made with his fangs, filling his mouth and trickling down his chin and neck. Impatiently, he tore another hole in Martinez's wrist, held it up to his mouth and squirted the blood down his throat. The liquid warmth felt so satisfying, so rich and thick and deliciously metallic, that the very touch of it on Barry's tongue made him feel as though he were about to come. Just like that time he'd turned Macca. That was the thing about blood; once you got a taste for it, it always left you wanting more.

Martinez had long stopped screaming, and was now only making feeble little moaning noises as the vampire footballers continued to drain his body. His olive skin was turning pale. Barry, Cleverley and Jagielka wiped their mouths and waited.

Martinez lay still. Then his eyes opened, and they were red.

"Welcome to the club, boss," said Jagielka, with a broad grin. "How do you feel?"

Martinez smiled back, giving the assembled players a glimpse of his new fangs.

"Phenomenal."


	24. Teamwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Dele Alli (Tottenham Hotspur) x Eric Dier (Tottenham Hotspur)

The other players see them as a tag team, two of a kind, a package deal, brothers from a different mother. Eric and Dele, Dele and Eric. Always the first to join in the celebration when the other one scores. Partners on and off the pitch. The perfect compliment to each other. Some of the more superstitious players even wonder if they can read each other's minds.

Dele wins the ball from Mesut Özil, dodges Alexis Sanchez, and passes the ball to Dier. Hugo Lloris is tentative in his six-yard box, but the ball is now in Arsenal's half as Dier scurries through their defence, holding onto the ball like a terrier with a bone. Next to Per Mertesacker, who Arsenal fans have dubbed the 'big fucking German', he looks so tiny. He flicks it across the mouth of the goal, Dele already there and waiting to receive the ball, and then Dele slots it neatly past Petr Čech, who dives the wrong way and thumps the ground in frustration. The Spurs fans bay for blood.

On the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino smiles. It isn't a spectacular goal, but it will do. On the pitch, Dele gleefully throws himself on Dier and ruffles his hair.

Later, the two of them will have their own private celebration.


	25. Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Player: Romelu Lukaku (Manchester United)

_It's nothing personal,_ Romelu Lukaku thinks.

Some of the men in blue are people he's known for ages, while some are unfamiliar faces, like the scrawny, nervous-looking young white guy in goal for Everton who's just let two past him. He'll probably see them around Manchester, or in Kevin Mirallas' case, at the next Belgium national team training session. He hopes they won't hold his performance against him. Did any of them smile at that miss?

The Everton fans are calling for his head, and Lukaku has always had a stubborn streak. It makes itself known tonight. Only minutes after Henrikh Mikhtaryan's goal, Lukaku scores the third of the night and defiantly cups his ear to the Everton fans, the people who only a few months ago were cheering for him. Now he is wearing a red shirt and they are spewing bile. Lukaku shrugs inwardly. _Let them be angry with me if they want._ He had always known that Everton were a means to an end. He is young and ambitious and has many years of a career ahead of him, and Jose Mourinho knows that, they all know that. Who knows where he'll be in five years? But right now, he is a Manchester United player, his former team mates are now the opposition, and his only regret is that Paul isn't here to enjoy the moment with him.

After the match ends, 4-0 to United, he shakes hands and exchanges a few friendly words with Morgan and Jags and some of the other old crew. He wonders where Yannick is right now. Probably at home watching the match on TV, his head in his hands. It was a shame they didn't have more time on the pitch together, winding up opposition players by chatting in Lingala. 

He catches Wayne Rooney's eye, but Rooney looks away, dejected. It has not been a good week for him.

_It's nothing personal. It's just football._


	26. Poking Kevin with a Stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Players: Kevin Mirallas (Everton) and Kevin de Bruyne (Manchester City)

Kevin de Bruyne looked like a helpless little ginger kitten, all curled up on the ground. Kevin Mirallas was not usually in the habit of poking cats with sticks - or indeed, players who looked like cats - but he could not help himself. The other Kevin was crying out for a good pranking. 

A twig had fallen onto the pitch somehow, near the Everton goal mouth, and no-one had had any idea how it got there. While the players and officials were distracting, Mirallas picked up the stick, casually inserted himself into the circle around de Bruyne, between a worried-looking Vincent Kompany and his old team mate John Stones, and prodded de Bruyne in the leg with the stick. De Bruyne's kittenish face twisted in pain. From the mouth of his goal, Jordan Pickford wondered what the hell was going on.

"Shite," said Leighton Baines, and legged it up the pitch to the circle of players, where Stones and Yaya Touré were having a heated exchange with Mirallas. Touré was shouting in Mirallas' face and Ashley Williams was fruitlessly trying to intervene.

Twig still in hand, Mirallas did it again.

"What the fuck is he playing at?" Pep Guardiola shouted at Ronald Koeman. Koeman shrugged. "Don't ask me," he said. "I'll have to have words with the boy later."

His work done, Mirallas tossed the stick over his shoulder, and was sent off for wasting time.

"Kevin," sighed Baines, as Mirallas passed him, "don't be a cunt."


	27. Rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Jürgen Klopp (Liverpool) x Ronald Koeman (Everton). This is a continuation of 'Of Derbies, Dutchmen & Post-Match Drinking'.

Everton 1, Liverpool 3. Liverpool had done it again, and Ronald Koeman knew straight away from Jurgen Klopp's face what would be expected of him after the match. Sure enough, when the two managers were having their post-match drink, Klopp did not waste time. "Come on, Ronald," he said. "Get your kit off."

"Fuck off," growled Koeman. "I'm not in the mood."

Klopp raised an eyebrow.

"And don't do the eyes at me again," Koeman continued. "This is stupid. I don't know why we do this. Just let me have another drink and go home." He turned to pour himself a glass of red wine. Without warning, Klopp grabbed him by the throat and slammed him up against the wall. His breath smelled of stale cigarettes and his bared yellow teeth put Koeman in mind of a large angry dog.

He was suddenly very afraid.

"You're forgetting something," Klopp said, very quietly. His grip on Koeman's throat tightened. "This is Anfield. This is _my_ territory, and you are _mine_ , and you are going to do what I want you to do, understand, you arrogant Dutch bastard? You can act the big man to your team, but not in here. In here, _I_ am the one in charge. Do you understand?"

Koeman grimaced, and nodded. Klopp let go of his throat and poured two glasses of wine, as if nothing had happened. Koeman knocked his back in one go. Klopp smiled. "Yes, by all means, have a drink, Ronald. Perhaps it will loosen you up."

Koeman shot Klopp a filthy glare, grabbed the bottle, threw back his head and took a long pull. Like a baby sucking at its mother's nipple, he drank and drank until it was empty. Klopp laughed and slapped his thighs. "You are funny, Ronald," he said. 

"Shut up," Koeman muttered. With great difficulty, he took his shoes off. Klopp was getting to him. If this was some kind of mind game to encourage Koeman to work Everton like dogs until they beat Liverpool, Klopp was even more of a genius than he thought. The room began to blur and sway. He vaguely sensed Klopp helping him undress, and collapsing to his knees.

Klopp smiled down at him.

" _Los._ "


	28. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Quique Sanchez Flores (Watford) x Roberto Martínez (Everton)

Watford and Everton finished the match in a draw. Phil Jagielka and Troy Deeney shook hands, Gareth Barry vehemently insisted to Seamus Coleman that it was a totally legitimate tackle and he didn't deserve that booking, Costel Pantilimon slapped Joel Robles on the back and Robles laughed, showing off his huge teeth. Quique Sanchez Flores half-listened to his staff, but he was really concentrating on Roberto Martinez, who was saying something to Ross Barkley. Barkley smiled shyly.

Then Martinez looked at Flores. He was still chewing. Both managers walked into the tunnel and, to Flores' irritation, Martinez began to blow bubbles again. Making his excuses to his staff, Flores got Martinez alone.

"Roberto," he hissed in Spanish. "You pop that gum one more time..."

"And what?" Martinez replied. 

"This," said Flores. He shoved the Everton manager up against the wall of the tunnel, cupped his face in his hands and kissed him. His tongue intertwined with Martinez's tongue, brushed against his teeth, the ball of gum lodged in his cheek. Martinez's breath tasted of coffee and artificial strawberries. His tongue still in the Everton manager's mouth, Flores ran his hands over Martinez's shaved head and down his back. He felt Martinez's erection pressing into his leg. Martinez was a much gentler kisser than him, and as Flores withdrew, Martinez's lips brushed his. 

Martinez wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I want you," he whispered in Flores' ear.

Flores had a press conference to deal with, but right now, all he wanted to do was kiss Martinez again and again. As if reading his thoughts, Martinez said, "Meet me in the car park after the presser. I'll tell the lads I've got unfinished business here." He rearranged Flores' scarf, patted him on the shoulder and walked off to the press room, leaving Flores standing there, calm on the surface but inwardly burning with desire.


	29. Age Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kevin Pressman (Millwall) x Jordan Archer (Millwall)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the lyrics are from 'The Prettiest Eyes' by the Beautiful South.

 

 _Now you're older and I look at your face_  
_Every wrinkle is so easy to place_  
_And I only write them down just in case_  
_You should die_  
  
_Lets take a look at these crow's feet, just look_  
_Sitting on the prettiest eyes_  
_60 25th of Decembers_  
_59 4th of Julys_  
_You can't have too many good times, children_  
_You can't have too many lines_  
_Take a good look at these crow's feet_  
_Sitting on the prettiest eyes_

Lying in bed with Kevin Pressman at his London flat, Jordan Archer was in a post-coital haze, but Pressman's mind seemed to be elsewhere. Archer grabbed a handful of Pressman's gut and squeezed playfully. Pressman grimaced. "What the fuck was that for?"

"You just seem in a weird mood, Kev," said Archer. "Sorry. Was it the sex?"

Pressman shook his head. Then he asked, "What do you see in me, Jordan?"

"What do you mean?" said Archer, frowning. _Way to kill the mood, Kev,_ he thought.

"What I said," Pressman replied. He sighed. "I don't get it, to be perfectly honest. You're young and beautiful. Look at me, Jordan. I'm ugly. I'm overweight. My hair's turning white. And I'm old enough to be your dad - I mean, I have kids the same age as you. My fiftieth birthday is coming up, for fuck's sake. You could do better."

 _Fucking hell,_ thought Archer. _I came here for sex, not to listen to Kev beating himself up._ Aloud, he said, "What's brought this on? Was it cos we've got Wednesday tomorrow?"

"Maybe. And I asked you a question. What do you see in someone like me?"

"Well, OK," said Archer, shrugging, "you ain't David Beckham. But...there are things I like about you, you know?" He shifted his body and ran his fingers through Pressman's hair, stopping at his temple.

Pressman was not satisfied. "Like what?"

Archer thought long and hard. Then he said, "Your smile." His fingers stroked their way down Pressman's jawline. "And your eyes. You've got...oh god, this is going to sound so fucking embarrassing...but you've got kind eyes. Your face just sort of like lights up when you're happy." He remembered a video he'd seen of Millwall's team photoshoot where Pressman, sitting on the front row, had been talking to Chopper Harris about something and he'd looked up at the goalkeepers behind him, a huge smile on his face, his small blue eyes shining. It was a far cry from the stony face in his Twitter picture.

Pressman squinted at him. "My eyes and my smile?"

"And you give great hugs," added Archer, laughing. He ran his hand down Pressman's stomach. "And great head. And I love your dick."

Pressman knew where this was going. The younger goalkeeper's hand was between his legs now.

"You're serious?" he asked, then let out a gasp as Archer grabbed hold of his cock and began to stroke it.

"Would I lie to you, Kev?" said Archer. "Would I? Now go on. Show me that big Pressie smile." His hand moved faster. Pressman relaxed, shut his eyes and smiled.


	30. Time Loops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Players: Leighton Baines (Everton) and Ross Barkley (Everton).

The sky over Liverpool was a giant bruise. The Three Graces had been reduced to dust, and giant waves swept over Pier Head, sending up torrents of dull grey water as the rain battered the ground like bullets. Leighton Baines and Ross Barkley lay side by side in a pool of their own blood in the centre circle at Goodison Park as the giant witch Derbyday rotated through the sky, cackling fiendishly. Seamus Coleman had been the first to go, eaten alive by a monstrous caterpillar-like witch. Tom Davies' soul gem had turned into a grief seed and Kevin Mirallas had had to kill him in a suicide attack. Now only Baines and Barkley were left, and time was running out. Baines' leg was broken, twisted under him.

Then Barkley spoke.

"Bainesy...if you do that time travel thing again...don't let me contract, OK? Whatever happens. If that...Dutch fella...if he asks me about contracts, don't let me sign."

"I won't," said Baines, squeezing Barkley's hand. "I promise."

Barkley's eyes closed. Baines reset the timeline yet again. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd done this. Had it been fifty? A hundred? A thousand, even? Every timeline had resulted in Barkley, Coleman, Davies and Mirallas all dying, one after the other, or even worse - Barkley turning into the dreaded Kriemhild Ross and destroying the world, and all Baines could do was lie there and watch.

Being Ross Barkley really was suffering, and that monster had no compassion. "Our kind consider emotions to be a mental disease," Koebey had said when Barkley had broken down in tears at the realisation that he and the others were nothing more than pieces of meat controlled remotely by their soul gems.

"Your kind?" Barkley had asked. "You mean aliens?"

"No," Koebey had said. "Dutchmen."

Baines couldn't wait to shoot the bastard thing in the face again.


	31. Pets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cast: the EPL managers

At the EPL Dog Show, Ronald Koeman glared blackly at the nervous blue pit bull terrier before him.

"Ross," he said through gritted teeth, "we're going to go through this again, OK? Now fetch." He threw a tennis ball. The dog looked at him, confused.

"Fetch," Koeman repeated.

The dog whined and put his head between his paws. Koeman sighed heavily. Ross was the stupidest dog he'd ever owned. 

"You're not having much luck with him, are you?" remarked Mauricio Pochettino in Spanish, as his ever-smiling golden retriever Harry trotted behind him, a tennis ball in his mouth.

"You can say again," Koeman moaned. "I swear he was dropped on his head as a puppy." Ross looked up at him with big sad eyes. 

Prizegiving time had arrived. Romelu the Belgian shepherd won first prize, with Antonio Conte's schipperke, Eden, and Sergio, Pep Guardiola's beloved Argentinian mutt, coming second and third respectively. Arsène Wenger's staffy Alexis came in fourth ("yet again," said Pochettino). Jose Mourinho ruffled the big dog's glossy black fur and smiled condescendingly at the other managers and their dogs. 

"Smug tit," muttered Rafa Benitez. His wolfdog, Aleksandar, growled in agreement.


	32. Mistaken for Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: James Milner (Liverpool) and...well, you'll see.

In the showers at Melwood, James Milner noticed that Adam Lallana was staring at him. Then he looked down, and realised he had a massive erection.

"Oi, Milly," said Lallana, "you've got a woody."

"Thinking about someone special?" called Simon Mignolet. Milner remained silent. His face was burning up, but he was still rock hard.

Did they know? 

"It's Hendo, isn't it?" prodded Philippe Coutinho. "You fancy him."

"Yeah," Lallana chimed in, "we saw how you were looking at him last Saturday."

"Shut up, you idiots," said Daniel Sturridge. "You're embarrassing him." Milner shot him a grateful glance and towelled himself off.

Lallana had been half right. Milner had been thinking about another player, but it wasn't Jordan Henderson. It was all because of the Derby and one particular player had been on his mind. An old team mate of his from when he was at Man City. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a strong jawline, a Southern accent. Big muscular arms that had held Milner so many times. Thighs that had wrapped around his back. Hands that had pinned him down and caressed his arse and back and thighs and balls. A massive cock inside him. Milner with his head resting on his arms, moaning.

He wondered when Gareth Barry would fuck him again.


	33. Livestock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: various

It was transfer deadline day at the transfer market.

In Everton's midfielder cage, Kevin Mirallas and Ross Barkley pawed at the bars as Antonio Conte and Slaven Bilic looked them over. Tony Pulis was parading Jonny Evans around on a leash and bragging about his legs, as scouts from Leicester looked on in interest. Tottenham officials prepared the branding iron for their new Llorente.

Arsene Wenger was not having a good day. Liverpool had just bought his Oxlade-Chamberlain, his Perez was being led into a van bound for Spain, and now Manchester City had expressed interest in his prized Sanchez, who had been given his own pen to stop the rest of the Arsenal squad biting his legs. But sadly, no-one was buying.

In their cage, the Arsenal goalkeepers began to howl. Gerry the goalkeeping coach tossed some raw meat through the bars.


	34. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Alan Shearer (Newcastle United) x Kevin Pressman (Mansfield Town)

Alan Shearer knew that Mansfield goalkeeper looked familiar. He'd scored past so many keepers that he'd lost track of who played for whom, but there was no mistaking this one, especially after Shearer had put five goals past him when Newcastle had played Sheffield Wednesday. Sure enough, in the tunnel at half time, Shearer felt a gloved finger tap him on the shoulder.

"Remember me, Alan?" said Kevin Pressman, he of the eight goals conceded, once given to Shearer as a trophy.

"Course I do, Kevin," said Shearer. "Be hard not to."

"We need to talk," said Pressman, and he grabbed Shearer by the arm and pulled him into a corner.

"I haven't got time for this-" Shearer began, but Pressman put his finger to his lips. Then he cupped Shearer's face in his hands and stared him right in the eye. They were so close that Shearer felt something pressing against his leg, and realised with a shock that Pressman was hard. He wondered what the fat goalie was going to do to him.

"I want you, Alan," Pressman said, very quietly. "Ever since that time at Newcastle, I've wanted you."

"It was just a one night stand," said Shearer. "It didn't mean anything." He had enjoyed it more than he was going to let on - Shearer loved being on top, especially when the other player was a goalkeeper - but Pressman's small blue eyes were burning into him, and it was making him nervous.

"Please, Alan," said Pressman. He ran his tongue over his lips. "Please."

"You really live up to your name, don't you?" said Shearer. Pressman did not smile. He undid the strap of his left glove and dropped the glove on the floor.

"Just give me an answer," he said. "If you want me, put one past me." He picked the glove up, put it back on and left. Shearer sighed. Even the quieter goalkeepers were completely mental, though Pressman certainly hadn't been quiet the last time.

The second half began. Newcastle were still at a stalemate until eighty-eight minutes in, when the ball shot into the far right of the Mansfield net, out of Pressman's reach.

Jackie Milburn's goalscoring record had been equalled, and Shearer had given Pressman his answer.


	35. Apples and Onions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Jamie Carragher (ex-Liverpool) and Matt Le Tissier (ex-Southampton)

Southampton were through to the next round of the League Cup, beating Liverpool 2-0 on aggregate. In the box at Anfield where the Sky pundits sat, a Golden Delicious apple and an onion lay on a table.

As if Jamie Carragher's night could not get any worse, a knife had been called for, and Matt Le Tissier had peeled the onion, placed it in front of Carragher and told him to eat it live on TV. It was like a big pale green eyeball, staring up at Carragher.

"Remember the bet we made before the match?" Le Tissier said. "You know, if you won and we lost, you'd eat an apple while I ate a raw onion live on TV? And if we won, you'd eat the onion?"

Carragher nodded. He'd been that confident that Liverpool had it in the bag, and now, thanks to Nathan Redmond and Shane Long, he was going to eat a raw onion, and Matt Le Tissier was going to milk every second of it.

Le Tissier bit into the apple. "Mmmm. That's a nice juicy one. How's your onion, Jamie?"

"Alright, alright," growled Carragher. He picked the raw onion up and took a bite. He winced as the overwhelmingly bitter taste filled his mouth, and tears pricked his eyes. Barely repressing his laughter, Le Tissier held up his phone and took a picture as Carragher manfully ate the onion. He was desperate for a bevvy.

He was never going to hear the last of it from Gary.


	36. The Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Steven Gerrard (Liverpool) x Phil Jagielka (Everton)

"I was expecting Tim Howard," said Steven Gerrard, "but you'll do, la'."

Thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, he looked down at his prey. After their 4-0 victory against Everton, a group of Liverpool players had decided to go against tradition of capturing the goalkeeper and giving him to their captain as a present. Instead, they had decided to go one better and bring Gerrard Phil Jagielka, the Everton captain.

Still in his Everton kit, Jagielka had been tied to a chair, his wrists bound together behind the back of the chair, and gagged with duct tape. He looked balefully at Gerrard. Gerrard smiled, and took Jagielka's face in his hands.

"I'm looking forward to playing with you," he said. Jagielka blinked at him. He reminded Gerrard of Bambi with those big brown woodland creature eyes of his. Gerrard pulled his shirt over his head, flung it over his shoulder, and straddled Jagielka, placing his hands on the Everton captain's shoulders. Slowly, rhythmically, he began to grind his crotch against Jagielka's body. Jagielka made a noise through his gag. 

"Don't worry," said Gerrard. "I won't tell Leighton." He could feel Jagielka getting hard beneath him, and on the spur of the moment, he slid his hand into Jagielka's shorts, then into his boxers, and grabbed hold of his cock. Jagielka moaned and threw his head back, and Gerrard kissed his neck and then began to suck, so that both Jagielka and Leighton Baines would be reminded of this victory. Jagielka writhed beneath him in the chair.

Being captain of Liverpool was fucking boss.


	37. Forgetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Ronald Koeman (Everton) x Ross Barkley (Everton). Based on 'What Have I Done to Deserve This?' by the Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield.

_How am I going to get through this?_ Ross Barkley wondered, as he knocked tentatively on the door of the Everton manager's office. The whole business with the contract had already put him in Ronald Koeman's bad books as it was.

"Come in," Koeman bellowed from within. Barkley walked into the office, trying to seem nonchalant, but his nerves got the better of him and he chewed his bottom lip. He noticed that Koeman had put the red flowers Barkley had bought him in a vase. Evidently, Barkley wasn't quite in the doghouse yet.

"You want something?" asked Koeman. "You want sex?" Barkley winced. His boss's directness intimidated him, both in and out of bed.

Barkley coughed. "Erm...Ron..." he said tentatively, clenching his fists, "we're still on for Thursday, aren't we?"

Koeman looked at his diary. "Shit," he said. "I'm sorry, Ross. I'm supposed to be playing golf that day. I promised the lads at the club I would. Also I have an interview booked with the Echo. Friday, I am not free either before you asked. I have a meeting with Mr Moshiri."

"But we've seen so little of each other lately," protested Barkley. "And we were supposed to go the movies last week and you blew me off. You always do this."

Koeman blew out his cheeks in annoyance. "And you always want too much. It is not my fault if I do not remember every single bastard thing I say I am going to do with you. Like I say, I take you out when I have time, and I do not have time right now. And don't give me that look," he added, as Barkley glared at him. "You want to play Saturday or not?"

"What have I done to deserve this?" said Barkley bitterly. Koeman did not answer. Barkley stormed out, slamming the door behind him.


	38. Impact Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kevin Pressman (Millwall) x Jordan Archer (Millwall)

Jordan Archer was looking forward to today's goalkeeping training. Unbeknown to the other Millwall keepers, he and Kevin Pressman had decided how they were going to train.

"Kev," Archer had asked Kevin Pressman in bed one day, "have you ever read 50 Shades of Grey?"

Pressman snorted. "Do I look like the kind of person who reads 50 Shades of Grey? Anyway, no, I haven't. Why?"

"I was thinking," said Archer, "fancy trying out some of that S&M stuff? It sounds fun."

At training later that week, Pressman had taken Archer aside and told him that he was up for what he called 'S&M, goalkeeper style'. Archer rolled his eyes. "It always has to be about goalkeeping with you, Kev."

"Well, I am a goalkeeping coach," Pressman had said, annoyed. "It goes with the territory. Anyway" - he lowered his voice - "I've been doing a bit of reading about something called impact play. And I'm going to implement it with you in our training sessions." As he explained, Archer's jaw dropped. Pressman's mind was, to say the least, an interesting place.

Archer knew full well how hard Pressman could kick a ball, but he was still unprepared for the sheer force with which the ball slammed him right in the nuts. He knew from the evil smile on Pressman's face that that was where the goalkeeping coach had been aiming for, and that this was just a taste of what was to come.

In turn, the Millwall keepers stood in the net, with Pressman aiming shots at them and ordering them to stand in what Martyn Margetson, England's goalkeeping coach, had called the 'set position'. Whenever Archer had his turn, Pressman aimed the ball as hard and as low as possible, and Archer accordingly threw himself to the ground as hard as he could, the ball smashing into his hands, his chest, even his face. There were no whips or chains, only a ball and a fat white man with a kick like a mule. And even though it hurt like a bastard, Archer still felt adrenaline coursing through his body. He would be covered in bruises tomorrow, but it would be worth it. 

"Take the pain, Jordan," said Pressman, and his soft voice with a hint of Yorkshire made the scenario even more delicious. "Take the pain." The other keepers thought Kevin was being his usual hardarse self. But Archer knew better.


	39. Fallen Angel/Catboy Dedicated to Being Kawaii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Romelu Lukaku and Kevin de Bruyne (Belgium NT)

Romelu Lukaku was in a bad mood again.

He'd never quite recovered from being kicked out of heaven, after the incident involving Ross Barkley in the celestial changing room. On the plus side, at least it was warm in hell, and the Demon King Jose had treated him kindly, and allowed the winged demon Pogba to take him under his wing, literally. But he still had to play for Belgium, and he would have found training much easier if Kevin de Bruyne hadn't kept trying to be cute.

De Bruyne rubbed his ginger head against Lukaku's leg and purred. 

"Go away," Lukaku growled. "I'm trying to brood."

De Bruyne's ears twitched. He did his best cat smile and rubbed his head against Lukaku's leg again.

"Did you not even hear what I just said, Kev?" said Lukaku. De Bruyne meowed. He rolled onto his back, inviting Lukaku to scratch his belly.

"You're not going to stop annoying me until I scratch you, right?"

"No, nyaa," said de Bruyne. Lukaku signed, bent over, and gave de Bruyne's stomach a tentative scratch.

"Gaaaaay," shouted Kevin Mirallas, from a distance.


	40. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Jordan Pickford x Joel Robles x Maarten Stekelenburg (Everton)

Jordan Pickford had often heard talk of the Goalkeepers' Union, but he had never realised it was more than just a Twitter hashtag until he joined Everton. Patrick Lodewijks, the goalkeeping coach, had shaken Pickford's hand and said, "Welcome to the Goalkeepers' Union," and then he had called Joel Robles and Maarten Stekelenburg over and told them to give Pickford his welcome.

Pickford had wondered what Patrick had meant by that. He hoped it would not involve being made to sing.

It didn't.

Hours later, in the Finch Farm showers, Pickford found himself sandwiched between two large naked goalkeepers. Hands that saved balls, hands that were usually clad in gloves, were caressing his thin, pale body, Stekelenburg's long fingers running up and down Pickford's chest and then drawing a trail down his stomach, his hip, his thigh, while Robles was massaging his arse cheeks. Slowly, rhythmically, Stekelenburg began to grind his crotch against Pickford. He placed his hands on the younger goalkeeper's shoulders, licked his neck, ran his fingers through Pickford's blond hair.

" _Tienes un buen culo_ ," Robles murmured into his ear. Pickford didn't speak Spanish, but he could guess what Robles was on about. Then he yelped as Robles inserted a finger into him. Robles backed up against the shower tap and switched the water on. Between the warm water raining down on him and Joel inserting another finger and Stekelenburg's own erection pressing against his, Pickford could take no more. He threw back his head, just in time for Robles to clamp his other hand over his mouth to stifle his moaning, and came messily all over Stekelenburg's crotch, before collapsing into his arms.

" _Welkom_ ," said Stekelenburg.

" _Bienvenido_ ," said Robles.

Pickford said nothing.


	41. Animal Transformation, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manager: Eddie Howe (Bournemouth)

The Bournemouth team walked onto the pitch at Old Trafford, to the strains of Herman's Hermits. Asmir Begovic led the team, a bundle of white fur in his arms. Opposition players and supporters alike raised their eyebrows, and then their phones, when it became clear that the bundle of white fur was a white cat. Bournemouth had never had a mascot; nor did they have any association with cats.

Moreover, Eddie Howe was nowhere to be seen. Jose Mourinho was surprised. Usually, if a manager was absent, his assistant would be in the technical area in his place, but Jason Tindall remained seated. "Where is Eddie?" he asked no-one in particular.

"He's right here," said Begovic, and he patted the cat's head. "Aren't you, boss?"

"Eddie?" said Mourinho incredulously. The cat lifted his head and meowed. Begovic bent down and gently placed the Bournemouth manager in his technical area.

Mourinho looked down at Howe, who was grooming himself. Howe trotted up to him and rubbed his head against Mourinho's leg, and purred.

"It's a good thing you're not Pep or Rafa," Mourinho said to the cat. "Otherwise I would boot you into the stand. Get back on the bench, you," he added to Juan Mata, who was about to stroke Howe. "We do not pet opposition managers."

"But he's so cute," sighed Mata, trailing dolefully back to the subs' bench.

Manchester United won 1-0. While Jürgen Klopp had barked himself into a frenzy while he was a dog, Howe did not hiss or spit, though he did rub his head against the legs of Jermaine Defoe, Lewis Cook and Benik Afobe as they prepared to come on, Defoe even giving him a quick scratch behind the ear. At the final whistle, Mourinho gingerly stroked Howe's back. He did not want to get cat hair on his suit, and white fur was particularly conspicuous.


	42. AU: Madoka Rebellion, Everton Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manager: David Unsworth (Everton)

" _Fort! Da! Fort! Da!_ " 

The cries of the Everton U23s rang out in the chill spring air as they practiced their passing on the Finch Farm pitch. Sunlight glinted off the goal posts, and the grass was thick with dew. The world had been righted, though at a price. David Unsworth had remade the world with his demonic powers, removed Ross Barkley from the Law of Cycles, healed Seamus Coleman's legs, and his familiars were running the show now. Sam Allardyce, the oldest of the three, was Everton manager, with Duncan Ferguson and Sammy Lee as his assistants. 

However, not everyone was happy. Leighton Baines, who had been one of Barkley's assistants before Unsworth stole his power, had a bone to pick with the demon. He found Unsworth leaning against a goalpost, watching the U23s at play. Save for his purple eyes and a massive pair of skeletal wings - which were currently tucked away under his tracksuit top - nothing gave Unsworth away as a demon, but Baines knew better.

"What the fuck have you done to Ross?" he asked.

"I've not done anything to him," said Unsworth, nonplussed. "Nothing bad, anyway. I just removed him from the Law of Cycles. He's fine." With a wave of his hand, he indicated towards where Ross Barkley was playing a five-a-side game with Joel Robles, Phil Jagielka, Aaron Lennon and Idrissa Gueye.

"You had no right to do that to him," Baines protested. "You didn't even ask. You just robbed his powers."

"Stop whingeing," said Unsworth. "You should be grateful. At least you don't have to keep fixing the timeline anymore, and Ross isn't going to Tottenham now. And you can't even remember anything anymore, can you?" he added, watching Baines' dark eyes widen in confusion as his memories dwindled.

"I remember..." Baines began. He stared fruitlessly into space. "I was part of something. Not the Everton squad. Something bigger than that." He looked at his former childhood hero with hate in his eyes. "You're a fucking monster, Dave. You're a demon."

"You'd better watch your back, Bainesy," said Unsworth gently. "Be careful what you say to me. Ross is my mate. You don't want Ross hating you, do you?" Dazed, Baines wandered off to join the training session. Unsworth tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. His familiars materialised behind him.

"Has Ross regained his memories, Master?" asked Lee.

"Nah," said Unsworth. A ball kicked by Beni Baningime smacked him in the face. He nonchalantly threw it back towards the training pitch. He continued, "Even if he does, I'll just erase them again." 

"And if Koebey interferes," said Allardyce, "we'll deal with him." He slammed his fist meaningfully into his palm.

"Aye," chimed in Ferguson, "and besides, we love punishin' the wee bawbag."

In the shadows of the complex, the frazzled Koebey heard his words, and shivered with fear.


	43. Losing Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Jordan Archer (Millwall) x Kevin Pressman (Millwall)

"Anyone seen my car keys?" Jordan Archer asked the Millwall changing room at large. "Steve? Jimmy? Anyone?"

None of the squad had seen them. A couple of players snorted. "Anyone seen my car keys?" Archer called again, as Kevin Pressman walked by.

Pressman immediately dropped to his knees and began scanning the floor, interrogating Archer about the whereabouts of the keys as he did so. Without a word, he tore open Archer's locker and rummaged in it, then shook his head. "No luck. Are you sure you've lost them? You haven't dropped them into your trainers, perhaps?"

"No, Kev," said Archer earnestly, "I've looked everywhere. Can't find them. Any chance I can get a lift back with you? I mean, I'm sure they'll turn up but it's going to take forever..."

Tom King and David Forde, the other goalkeepers, exchanged knowing glances. Forde made a coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like 'bollocks'. Pressman cut Archer off and said, "OK, sure, I'll give you a lift home but for fuck's sake, Jordan, don't do this again. I can't afford to waste time ferrying you lot around." Behind Pressman's back, Archer grinned. He swung his kit bag onto his shoulder, said goodbye to his team mates, and got into the passenger seat of the goalkeeping coach's Mazda.

"Your place or mine?" Pressman asked, as he reversed out of the Den car park, the Human League on the radio.

"I have no idea what you mean," said Archer, feigning innocence. Pressman looked at him, and burst out laughing.

"Jordan," he said, "you know, if you want a shag, just ask me. You don't have to make up some rubbish about keys. Speaking of which." He dropped Archer's car keys into his lap. "I found them on the changing room floor, under the bench. Maybe next time you want to, erm, _lose_ your car keys, don't lose them where your coach can find them."

Archer coloured, and cradled the keys in his hands. Nothing got past Pressman, on or off the pitch.

"You got me there, Kev."

 


	44. Bubbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Player: Alexis Sanchez (Arsenal)

Alexis Sanchez unwrapped a piece of the Chilean bubble gum he had brought into the Arsenal changing room, and popped it into his mouth, and chewed.

"Glo-bos jig-an-ti-cos," Aaron Ramsey read on the packaging. "What's that mean, then?"

"I'll show you," said Sanchez. "Watch this." He took a deep breath.

Three minutes later, a noise that sounded like a pillow bursting echoed down the Emirates corridor.

At first, Arsène Wenger thought there had been some kind of party in the Arsenal changing room, or someone had been throwing around pink toilet paper. There appeared to be banners of it hanging from the ceiling, draped over the benches and lockers. Then he noticed the patches of a pink substance on the walls, and realised that whatever it was, it sure as hell was not paper.

Several players had hidden under the benches, and were now gingerly climbing out. Jack Wilshere was sitting on the floor, his face contorted in pain, clutching his ankle. Hector Bellerín, his tongue poking out in concentration, was removing more of the pink substance from Olivier Giroud's hair. As for who was behind this...the culprit was in plain sight. Sanchez - although his face and the upper half of his body were partially hidden under a sheet of the pink substance, a large portion of which clung to his nose and chin - looked up at Wenger and smiled sheepishly.

"You fucking arsehole, Alexis," moaned Wilshere. "I've twisted my ankle...oh, sorry, boss," he added as he saw Wenger in the doorway. "I don't think I can play."

"But what has happened?" Wenger asked. "This is some kind of prank?"

"Not really," said Ramsey, hesitantly. "Er...Alexis kind of had this gum and he was blowing a bubble and it got really big" - he threw his arms out - "and filled the whole room, and Petr and Per were yelling at him to stop, and then it went pop and Jack fell over."

Wenger buried his head in his hands, and made a mental note to ban players from chewing gum in the stadium in the future.


	45. Dubious Consent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Harry Kane (Tottenham) x Phil Jagielka (Everton)

Phil Jagielka never knew quite what happened to him after Tottenham had beaten Everton 4-0, but he had a nasty feeling someone had put something in his water bottle. He suspected Dele Alli had had something to do with it. That little bastard was always up to no good. It would certainly have explained why he collapsed after the match, and why everything that had happened afterwards was a blur.

This was all he could remember.

He remembered falling backwards, but the Tottenham squad were too quick, and as he was about to hit the ground, hands grabbed him. A black hand around one wrist - Danny Rose's - and a white hand, belonging to Christian Eriksen. Two other players, who he recognised as Heung-Min Son and Erik Lamela, grabbed his ankles, and he felt himself being lifted above the ground. The four Tottenham players carried him to the dressing room, heaved him up onto a table in the middle of the room, and gathered round him, along with Hugo Lloris, the captain, and a few other players, Alli among them.

"Get his kit off," Lloris ordered, and with a sinking feeling, Jagielka realised they were going to do to him what the Liverpool team had done that one time. Like a flock of white birds, the Tottenham players hovered around him, pulling off his boots, his socks, his shin pads, his shirt and shorts, and finally his boxers. Black, white and brown hands swarmed all over him. Jagielka could feel his body slacken, as though it were melting. He imagined himself pooling out over the table and dripping on the floor, and snorted with laughter. 

"Do we need a gag or rope or anything?" asked Kieran Trippier.

"No need," said Lloris briskly, "he will not resist. He will roll over and submit, just like his team did."

"Be gentle," Jagielka heard a voice slurring, and realised it was his own. The harsh ceiling lights seemed to float above him, the walls melting, the faces and bodies of the Tottenham players distorting and blurring. 

Through the haze, a familiar face hovered over him. Blond hair. A deep voice. A nose like an eagle's beak. Dopey blue eyes. A friendly smile. There was no mistaking it.

"All yours, 'Arry," he heard Hugo Lloris say. 

"Help me," Jagielka whispered. His tongue hung out. Kane stroked his face.

Lloris and Jan Vertonghen rolled Jagielka onto his front. "You're so cute," Kane murmured in his ear, "you look like one of my labs. I'll be gentle."

Jagielka felt as though he was sinking into a pool of nothingness. Something parted his buttocks and entered him, but it did not hurt. In fact, Kane could have shoved his entire fist up there and Jagielka would not have minded. A camera phone clicked. The players chanted Kane's name.

Then everything went black.


	46. Dead Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team: Liverpool

The match between Liverpool and West Bromwich Albion was rudely interrupted when a dead dove plummeted from the sky and landed on Simon Mignolet's head, knocking him cold. The Anfield paramedics were called to the pitch, and Loris Karius put on his gloves. Inside the commentators' box, Robbie Savage was - for once - lost for words.

As the paramedics carried the concussed Mignolet away, Dejan Lovren wandered into the six-yard box and picked up the dead dove.

"Put it down," barked Jordan Henderson. "That thing's caused enough trouble already."

"No problem," said Lovren, "I'll just throw it into the stand."

James Milner had a bad feeling about this idea. He had seen that episode of 'Arrested Development', and knew that nothing good could come of a dead dove.

"Er, Dejan," he said, "I really don't think you should throw that thing into the crowd."

"Why?" asked Lovren. "It's dead." He threw the dead dove into the Kop. The dead dove's downward trajectory was interrupted by the face of a Liverpool supporter. 

The Liverpool supporter - a large bearded man called Franny, who also happened to be the keyboard player with the band Space - took exception to being pelted with a dead dove, especially by one of his least favourite players, and threw it back at Lovren with such force that it hit him right behind the eyes and knocked him out. Once again, paramedics were called to the pitch. Željko Buvač, Liverpool's assistant manager, called Joe Gomez over and told him to take his tracksuit top off.

"I don't know what he expected," said Alan Pardew to his assistant.


	47. Brainwashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team: the Belgium national team

The Belgian national men's team had gathered together to view what Roberto Martinez had insisted was an essential training video. It was a training video, all right, but not the king they were expecting. For one thing, it began with a black and white cartoon bear. The left side of its mouth was curved into a rictus grin, and its left eye flashed red. The players whispered amongst themselves.

"Enjoy the show, bastards," squeaked the bear. Jan Vertonghen was confused. "Er, Roberto," he said, "what's this got to do with football?"

"Nothing," said Martinez, and even the most eagle-eyed of players would not have noticed that his eyes had turned from brown to red. Then the bear disappeared, and ominous circus music played.

A teenage girl with mousy bobbed hair, wearing a brown school uniform, appeared on screen. She was walking through what appeared to be a dungeon filled with traps. Blades came out of the floor and pierced her feet, and shot out of the walls, cutting her face open, tearing her clothes. The girl was crying in pain, dragging her mutilated body through the corridor.

"That poor kid," whispered Kevin Mirallas, whose wife had recently given birth to a daughter. "Who did this?"

The girl was walking towards a door, her face and clothes covered in blood. She reached out and opened the door, and was greeted by a spear flying into the room and piercing her body. Spears shot out of the walls and floor, lifting her off the ground and impaling her all over.

Then the footage repeated again, and again, and again.

Toby Alderweireld tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but his hands were frozen in place. Simon Mignolet could not close his eyes; it was as though they had been forced open. Other players found that they could not move from their seats. It was as though they had been stuck there, frozen in time. All they could do was watch the horror onscreen and the young girl being impaled, over and over.

"I can't stand this!" wailed Kevin de Bruyne. "Someone make it stop!"

"Please turn it off," begged Dries Mertens. "Please, Roberto."

Martinez smiled, and shook his head slowly. The Belgium players screamed, cried, pleaded, dug their nails into the fingers, threatened, begged, swore. It was no use. The footage continued, the colours growing brighter, the visuals screamingly clear. It bled into the players' minds and dragged up memories and fears and nightmares, things they were terrified would happen to them, things they would rather forget. They cried and laughed and howled. Their eyes turned to spirals.

Martinez turned off the TV and applauded.

"Congratulations, lads, and welcome to Ultimate Despair."


	48. Male Pregnancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Martyn Margetson (Everton) x Jordan Pickford (Everton)

(to the tune of 'The Gentleman Soldier' by the Pogues)

 

I saw Martyn Margetson at the Lower Bullens stand

He saluted the goalkeeper by a waving of his hand

And Martyn boldly kissed him and he passed it off as a joke

And Jordan ended up on his back being fucked by the goalie coach

 

_And the drums are going ratatatat_

_And the fans, they loudly bay_

_Fare thee well, Jordan me dear,_

_I must be on my way_

 

All night, they shagged like bunnies till the daylight did appear

Then Martyn rose, put on his clothes and said, “Farewell, my dear,

I thought you played a blinder against Newcastle today.

If I didn’t have to fuck off home, with you I’d gladly stay.”

 

_And the drums are going ratatatat_

_And the fans, they loudly bay_

_Fare thee well, Jordan me dear,_

_I must be on my way_

 

“If Allardyce asks you where you’ve been, then this is what you say:

I had to take you and the keepers for an extra session today.

You don’t have to tell them about our little joke

When you ended up lying on your back, being fucked by your goalie coach.”

 

_And the drums are going ratatatat_

_And the fans, they loudly bay_

_Fare thee well, Jordan me dear,_

_I must be on my way_

 

“My lovely Martyn Margetson, won’t you marry me?”

“Oh no, my dearest Jordan, that can never be.

For I have a wife already, and children I have three.

I’m not John Terry or Ryan Giggs, one wife’s enough for me.”

 

_And the drums are going ratatatat_

_And the fans, they loudly bay_

_Fare thee well, Jordan me dear,_

_I must be on my way_

 

“Martyn, you heartless bastard, why didn’t you tell me so?

The gaffer will be angry when this he comes to know.”

And when nine months had been and gone, the Everton fans went wild;

For Pickford had somehow given birth to the goalie coach’s child!

 

_And the drums are going ratatatat_

_And the fans, they loudly bay_

_Fare thee well, Jordan me dear,_

_I must be on my way_

 


	49. Backseat Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Phil Jagielka (Everton) x Leighton Baines (Everton)

For Phil Jagielka, victory had not tasted so sweet in a long time. Not only had Everton kept a clean sheet, but Leighton was back in the squad, and the position of right back had been filled again.

Now they were celebrating in their own way, on the back seat of Baines' car, the front seats pushed forward to give Baines space to climb into Jagielka's lap. Trainers and trousers had been discarded. Baines unbuttoned Jagielka's shirt and ran his hands down his chest, while Jagielka wrapped his arms around the little defender and pulled him closer. Baines' hips rocked back and forth as he thrust against the older man's crotch. Instinctively, Jagielka turned his head and blew on the window. The heat had been turned up, but he didn't fancy Big Sam catching them.

The squad were due to celebrate Jordan Pickford's birthday later with a Japanese meal, but it could wait.

When it was over, Baines sank gratefully into Jagielka's arms, their bodies sticky with sweat and cum.

"Welcome back, Leighton," Jagielka said gently into his ear.


	50. Cherries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team: AFC Bournemouth

_Manchester City 2, Bournemouth 1._

In its pale blue and white tin, the cake looked innocuous enough, but in his relatively short managing career, Eddie Howe had never found one in a changing room after a match. The players were gathered round it, tentatively, as though it were a spongy cherry-filled bomb. Jermaine Defoe picked the tin up and sniffed the cake. "I don't smell any weed in it or nothing," he said, frowning. "Definitely not a hash cake."

"Might be poisoned, though," said Harry Arter.

"Don't be stupid," Defoe snorted. "Why would anyone want to give us a poisoned cake?"

A piece of paper had slid off the bench from under the cake tin, and Howe picked it up and read it. It was full of crossings out, but the message was clear enough.

_Dear Bournemouth_

_Congratulations on your victory against United. As a reward, we give you this. Kevin de Bruyne made it. It is a cherry cake as you are the Cherries. Enjoy._

_Kind regards,_

_Pep Guardiola and the Manchester City squad._

The Bournemouth squad looked at each other.

"He must really hate Mourinho," said Charlie Daniels, saying what everyone else was thinking.

Howe decided there and then to give Guardiola the benefit of the doubt, and dispatched Jordon Ibe to see if he could find a knife of some sort.


	51. Wall Slamming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Managers: Jose Mourinho (Manchester United) x Pep Guardiola (Manchester City)

Manchester United had beaten Manchester City 3-2, and Pep Guardiola's day was about to get worse.   
  
It was customary for the manager of Manchester United to have a post-match drink with the manager of his opponents. Ferguson had done it, van Gaal had done it, even Moyes had done it, and now it was Jose Mourinho's turn. Guardiola expected to be patronised as usual and served some cheap red out of spite.  
  
Instead, he found himself with his face pressed into the wall and Mourinho yanking his right arm up his back. The bastard was stronger than he looked. Guardiola gritted his teeth. He would not cry out. He would not give Mourinho that satisfaction.  
  
Mourinho's hands were at his waist, undoing his jeans, and Guardiola was too drained to stop him. At least, that was the excuse he gave himself. He shivered. Mourinho's hands were freezing cold.  
  
He should have guessed the bastard would want revenge after the last derby. He heard the sound of flies being unzipped and trousers being dropped, leaned his head on his arms, and arched his back. His right arm was still killing him. Then Mourinho entered him, and it hurt like hell. The older man kissed him on the neck and nibbled his ear.  
  
"I...hate...you," Guardiola panted as Mourinho rammed into him.  
  
Mourinho laughed unpleasantly.  
  
"You know you want it, Josep. You just can't get enough of me."


	52. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Player: Tyrese Campbell (Stoke City)

A cold, rainy Tuesday night in Stoke, the stuff of pundit cliché wet dreams.  
  
Stoke City U23s are playing Arsenal U23s. Tyrese Campbell is starting for Stoke. Kevin, his dad, is watching him. Normally, the old man would be rooting for the Gunners, but tonight is an exception.  
  
The rain is coming down in sheets, the pitch barely visible. Their shorts and shirts cling to their bodies. Campbell cannot afford to stand still, and not just because of the speed of this Arsenal side. But one of their midfielders, half blinded by the rain, is in his path, and the ball is his. He weaves through the Arsenal defence, head down, and hits home. He lifts his arm in celebration.  
  
Up in the stands, Kevin Campbell smiles, and waves back.


	53. Ronaldo's Goalkeeper Fetish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo (Real Madrid) x Gianluigi Buffon (Juventus)

Cristiano Ronaldo had always had a thing about goalkeepers.

There were so many things to love about them. Their giant hands. Their tendency to be taller than the average human being. Their angry little faces. The despair in their eyes as he slotted yet another hat trick past them. Some of them were so adorable he wanted to kidnap them and take them home. Zidane had had to warn him about this when Real Madrid played AC Milan, and Ronaldo had actually tried to take Gianluigi Donnarumma home with him.

One of his favourite goalies, however, had always been Gianluigi Buffon. He was so ridiculously handsome, in that wolfish kind of way. He looked like he'd do you up the arse and slit your throat while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. Ronald particularly enjoyed scoring against him, and not just on the pitch either.

After Real Madrid beat Juventus yet again - Ronaldo scoring the penalty, of course - Ronaldo made a beeline for Buffon as the Italian keeper was giving an interview. He drew the other man close to him and caressed his cheek.

"I'm taking you home with me," he whispered in Buffon's ear. Buffon's only reply was a coy smile.


	54. Blond Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Alan Shearer (Newcastle United) x Kevin Pressman (Sheffield Wednesday)

 

 

Kevin Pressman was annoyed.

The Newcastle team, between them, had tied his hands and feet, gagged him with a bandage someone had nicked from a First Aid kit, and stripped him down to his shorts. Six of them had carried him to the other changing room at St James' Park and left him there for Alan Shearer, the bastard who had put five goals past him, to play with. Terror had given way to nerves, and then irritation. Shearer had to be in his thirties, but to Pressman, it was like being groped by an awkward teenager. He'd seen how surprised Shearer was by the size of his cock - _everyone always thinks they'll never be able to find the fucking thing,_ Pressman thought - but Shearer had no idea how to handle it. He was gingerly squeezing and twisting it and it hurt, and not in a good way. He shook his head and grunted.

"What?" asked Shearer.

 _You could try taking my gag off, you idiot,_ thought Pressman. He nodded at Shearer and rubbed his cheek against his shoulder, even though it made his neck hurt. Shearer got the hint and undid the bandage, which was knotted at the back of Pressman's head. 

"You've never wanked another man off, have you?" asked Pressman.

"Not really, no," said Shearer. "Am I that bad?"

 _Sod it,_ thought Pressman. Aloud, he said, "Yes. That was a poor excuse for a handjob. And we haven't got too much time."

"I suppose I'd better untie you," Shearer began, but Pressman interrupted him.

"I want you," he said, "to fuck me."

Shearer gaped at him. Pressman blew out his cheeks. "Come on, Alan," he said, "that's why I'm here. That's why your team mates gave me to you."

"But how do I..." Shearer began. He awkwardly scratched the back of his neck and ran his fingers through his curly blond hair.

Pressman told him, and did not spare the details. He suppressed a smile at the amazement on Shearer's face.

Five minutes later, Pressman was on his back, his hands free to stroke his cock while Shearer fucked him. Pressman wrapped his legs around Shearer's back, drawing him closer. Shearer was finding his rhythm, he was still new to this, and Pressman's hips rocked back and forth in time with Shearer's thrusts.

Then Shearer suddenly stopped and barked, "Take your hands off your knob."

"You bastard," moaned Pressman. "I swear I'm going to come any minute."

"You'll come when I tell you to," Shearer said, and laughed. "Now hands off."

For Pressman, what was only a few minutes felt like hours. He was teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to fall any minute, waiting for the push that would send him soaring into heaven. He clenched his teeth and willed himself not to come. It was almost as agonising as the time he'd done his cruciate.

"Go on then, hinny," he heard Shearer say.

Then he felt Shearer's hand encircling his cock, and it was clear that Shearer had been watching Pressman's hands, because this time he was running one hand up and down the shaft, and then he began to ram into Pressman again, and Pressman felt something filling him and saw Shearer smiling, his head thrown back, and then he saw stars and colours and everything was spinning, and he sighed as he came all over Shearer's hand.

Shearer slowly, almost gingerly, pulled out of Pressman, and then cupped the fat goalie's dirty blond head in his hands. Pressman's mouth hung open. Shearer tilted Pressman's chin upwards so Pressman was looking into his eyes, and kissed him.

 _If I could stop time right now_ , Pressman thought, _I would. I don't want this moment to end_.


	55. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Phil Jagielka (Everton) x Leighton Baines (Everton)

When Diego Costa taunted Phil Jagielka for accidentally giving him the ball and allowing him to score, his face almost touching Jagielka's own, most fans expected that Gareth Barry, Muhamed Besic, or even Tim Howard would sort Costa out. Barry and Besic had racked plenty of cards up between them, Besic was always up for a scrap, and Howard was prepared to stand up for his own players, even if he was quieter than the average goalkeeper. No-one, not even the players, expected little Leighton Baines of all people, that quiet defender who kept his head down and stuck to set pieces, to walk up to Costa and punch him in the face.

The quiet ones, as the old cliche goes, are the ones to watch out for.

Goodison Park erupted. The Chelsea fans roared with rage. Costa clutched his cheek in agony, and Eden Hazard, John Terry, Branislav Ivanovic and Willian all clustered around Baines, jostling him and yelling abuse. Gary Cahill, Jagielka and Seamus Coleman stepped in to break up the fight, and Howard left his six-yard box and ran up the pitch to join in. Jose Mourinho was steaming mad and about to leave his technical area to have his say, but Mike Dean broke up the brawl as Terry pulled Costa away, saying, "Leave it, Diego, he ain't worth it."

It was an instant red card for Baines, and he did not argue when Dean pulled the card out. Roberto Martinez's dark eyes blazed as Baines walked past him, and the subs knew that Baines was in deep shit, but Baines ignored him. He walked down the tunnel, his head held high. Play continued.

After the match, Jagielka sought Baines out and confronted him. "Why, Leighton?" he asked. "Why the hell did you do that, you idiot?"

"Because," said Baines, "I love you. I always will."

And he walked away to face Martinez, leaving Jagielka stunned.


	56. Love Song Karaoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Phil Jagielka (Everton) x Leighton Baines (Everton)

The Everton team had gone out for Jordan Pickford's birthday, and most of them were now sitting in a karaoke bar on Wood Street, listening to Gylfi Sigurdsson doing a passable impression of Ed Sheeran. Yannick Bolasie had moaned about the lack of grime, and Mason Holgate and Dominic Calvert-Lewin had laughed and snorted their way through Rihanna's 'Umbrella'.

Sigurdsson stepped down from the platform, to the applause of his team mates. "Next up," said the announcer, "we have Leighton Baines, and he's going to do...the Beatles." Several players rolled their eyes. Baines' love of the Beatles was legendary.

The little defender stepped up to the platform. The opening chords of 'Things We Said Today' began to play.

_You say you will love me_   
_If I have to go_   
_You'll be thinking of me_   
_Somehow I will know_

_Someday when I'm lonely_   
_Wishing you weren't so far away_   
_Then I will remember_   
_The things we said today_

"I don't know this one," muttered Jordan Pickford to his neighbour, Idrissa Gueye. Gueye, who was not familiar with the Beatles himself, smiled and shrugged.

" _Me, I'm just the lucky kind_ ," Baines sang. " _Love to hear you say that love is luck / And though we may be blind / Love is here to stay, and that's enough..._ "

"Oi, Phil," said Tom Davies to Phil Jagielka, "you hot or something? You're bright red, la'."

Jagielka blew out his breath and fanned himself with his hand. "Yeah, I'm fucking boiling, mate. Dunno about you."

Davies said nothing, and picked up his pint. It was just as well. Jagielka wasn't overheated in the slightest.

He was blushing, because he had noticed how Baines had looked him dead in the eye at certain points during the song. Baines hadn't changed the gender of the lyrics, but Jagielka knew exactly who Baines was singing to.


	57. Fallen Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Player / coach: Kevin Pressman (Millwall) and Jordan Archer (Millwall)

Jordan Archer had always known that the life of a magical goalkeeper was not a happy one - every magical goalkeeper knew that there was no going back once they had signed the contract - and that sooner or later, they would turn into witches, or be eaten by them. The first fate had befallen his old colleague, David Forde, but worse was to come.  
  
Kevin Pressman's ageing body was beginning to fail on him. Fighting witches on the pitches took its toll. He had been visibly unhappy in recent weeks, and now to cap it off, Millwall had let him go. The goalkeepers had been at training when the news had come out. None of them were happy, but Archer, the fans' scapegoat, was unhappier still. He sensed Pressman knew this when the older man kept him behind after training.  
  
"There's something I want to show you," he said, and opened his gloved hand. In his palm lay his soul gem.  
  
"Never," said Pressman in a monotone, "push a loyal person to the point where they no longer care."  
  
Archer stared at the goalkeeping coach in horror as the realisation dawned.  
  
"Kev, please," he begged, "don't do this. Come on, man, you're better than this. You'll find another club. You can't fall into despair, not now."  
  
Pressman's grip tightened around his soul gem. Only a tiny fraction of blue remained, and even that was being swallowed up by the blackness.   
  
"I have failed you, Jordan," he said, his voice and eyes dull and blank. "I taught you the same mistakes I taught Fordey, and the fans are picking up on it. They want us both gone. They think I'm fat and worthless. And you know what? They're fucking _right_. What is the point? Why am I still here?"  
  
The black cloud within the gem had reached the tip. With a sinking heart, Archer realised that the goalkeeping coach he'd looked up to, his mentor, his friend, was about to be gone forever.  
  
"I am so stupid," said Pressman. His eyes filled with tears. "So...very... _stupid_." A tear trickled down his cheek and plopped onto the blackened soul gem.  
  
Archer threw up his hands to protect his eyes as the soul gem shattered into tiny shards.


	58. Submission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Thierry Henry x Roberto Martinez (Belgium NT)

France 1, Belgium 0.

Only one man in the Belgium camp was happy, and that was Thierry Henry. Of course, he wouldn't have been upset if Belgium had won, but Didier Deschamps was an old friend of his, and France were his own team. He was a hyena in a pack of zebras.

And he had another reason to be happy. Roberto had lost the bet.

Several hours later, in Henry's hotel room, Martinez was naked and kneeling at Henry's feet. Henry, still in his suit from the match, tenderly stroked Martinez's shorn head, as though he were stroking a cat. Martinez smiled up at him. Henry had always got the feeling that Martinez was a secret submissive.

"What a good little pet you are," he said.

Martinez laid his head on Henry's lap.

"You are the real power behind the throne, Master Thierry," he said. "Everyone knows that."

Slowly, deliberately, Henry undid his fly. Martinez looked up at him, eyes wide. 

"Good boy," said Henry. "Good boy. Take your time."

Martinez lowered his head, took Henry's cock in his mouth and slowly, gently, began to suck. Henry pushed his head down, and stroked Martinez's head again as Martinez moved his lips further and further up the shaft. When Henry could feel the beginnings of an orgasm begin to stir deep inside him, he ordered Martinez to stop, picked him up bodily, threw him face down on the bed and took him from behind, without lube. There was a sudden intake of breath from Martinez, which made Henry all the more excited. He dug his nails into Martinez's back. Martinez arched his back, inviting Henry to go deeper inside him. His olive skin was slick with sweat and Henry fucked him furiously, his hands on Martinez's shoulders. Martinez's breathing grew heavier. Henry came inside Martinez, but he was not done. He pulled out of Martinez, rolled him onto his front and grabbed hold of his cock. Martinez eased himself along the bed towards Henry, and wrapped his legs around Henry's waist.

"You're too quiet, Roberto," Henry hissed. "I want to hear you. Let yourself go."

"Master...Thierry?" Martinez whispered. "You want...to...please me?"

"But of course," said Henry. "We French are supposed to be the world's greatest lovers. Now let me hear you."

A faint little moan emanated from Martinez.

"Do better," ordered Henry, and frantically tugged at Martinez's cock. Martinez's moans grew louder. On impulse, Henry shoved a finger into him, and Martinez thrashed and twisted on the sheets, grabbing the material in his fists, and came with a loud cry. His body jerked in one great spasm, and went limp.

"Good boy," said Henry tenderly, and kissed Martinez on the forehead.


	59. Goalkeeper Fetish Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Neville Southall (ex-Everton) and a whole load of keepers

Neville Southall was beginning to regret allowing adult babies to take over his Twitter.

It wasn't the fetish itself; he was fairly liberal when it came to kink, and as long as no-one got hurt and it was all consensual, no animals or kids, it didn't bother him. What did bother him was the fact that other goalkeepers, past and present, had evidently seen his Twitter and run with it. Except the bastards had gone one better; they hadn't had people involved in kink scenes take over their Twitter feeds. No, they had to demonstrate it themselves.

Southall had a feeling some of them were enjoying it a little too much, and it was pretty fucking weird seeing some of his former contemporaries from his playing days doing things that he'd never have imagined any of them doing. And with things that weren't even sexual objects. He couldn't stop clicking. It was a morbid fascination, like watching footage of Liverpool in their trophy-winning days.

 _Click._ Peter Schmeichel whipped the back of Ryan Giggs, who was topless and shackled to a wall, while calling him all the names under the sun. _Click._ Peter Shilton, clad in a Hugh Hefner-esque dressing gown, explained the joys of being a sugar daddy, flanked by two of his sugar babies. _Click._ A gang of goalkeeping coaches ooh'ed and aah'ed over gloves, waxing lyrical about the softness of the leather, and stroked each others' faces. _Click._ Kevin Pressman blew up balloons until they burst, while stripped down to his boxers. _Click._ David James recommended dogging sites. _Click._ Andy Goram explained his fisting technique in great detail.

And it wasn't just the old ones, the young ones were at it as well. Lorius Karius posing in dresses. Iker Casillas dressed as a catboy and talking in broken English about pet play. David de Gea being led around on a leash like a dog by Sergio Aguero. Tim fucking Howard in leather. Gianluigi Buffon in uniforms that showed off his muscular physique. Jack Butland bound and gagged. Thibaut Courtois showering Ross Barkley with cum. Jordan Pickford blowing bubble gum bubbles that eclipsed his face and shoulders, and covered him in a sticky mess when they popped. Manuel Neuer enthusiastically smearing Nutella all over his body. Wojciech Szczesny inhaling laughing gas out of balloons - were he and Pressman going to collaborate? Edwin van der Sar taking long drags on cigarettes and blowing smoke at the camera. And on and on. And Petr Čech's hook suspension video was going to give Southall nightmares. He had a high pain threshold, you had to if you wanted to be a goalkeeper, but he drew the line at shoving bits of metal through his skin.

Even the female keepers were at it. Hope Solo displaying the soles of her feet to the camera. Karen Bardsley enthusing about her medical fetish and how she loved visiting the doctors at Man City. Carly Telford lying on her front as her team mates walked up and down her spine.

 _I've created a monster_ , Southall thought. Still, it could be worse. At least it wasn't managers.


	60. Body Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Player: James McCarthy (Everton)

Everyone in the Park End heard the crack.

Everton were 1-0 down to West Bromwich Albion, and James McCarthy had made a desperate lunge at Salomón Rondón as he ran towards the Everton goal. Rondón's boot collided with his calf, snapping it backwards, the bone folding in on itself, and McCarthy's body slammed into the grass.

Pain clouded McCarthy's senses. He could not even speak or cry out; it was as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He was dimly aware of Jordan Pickford and Ashley Williams screaming for help, Jay Rodriguez holding his hand, a stricken Morgan Schneiderlin bending over him, a medic down by his broken leg, outraged fans roaring for Rondón to be sent off.

 _First Seamus_ , he thought, _and now me. It's not fair._

Hands were lifting him onto a stretcher, placing a blood monitor on his finger. It all seemed so unreal, somehow. He thought he heard the words 'double fracture'. _No. No. Please, no._ The season was over. The light was hurting his eyes. He shielded them with his right arm, and wished Seamus was there to comfort him.

Down the touchline, Rondón sobbed bitterly, "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it," as Alan Pardew led him away.


	61. The Stalker Gets What He Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Club: Sheffield Wednesday

She knew she should be happy that he had come home.

Hadn't he loved her ever since he was a child? All those years they'd spent together, with her watching him grow from a boy into a man. Through rain and sun and snow, through pain and happiness and that wonderful day in 1992, and all the times he'd defended her against her little sister. How she'd loved his steady hands and his smile and his sheer loyalty. How it had broken her when he'd had to leave her, through no fault of his own. She'd had others after him, but it was never the same. Everyone said she'd treated him badly, that he'd never got the send-off he'd deserved.

She should have been happy to see him.

And yet.

The man had an obsessive streak a mile wide. She'd look at his Twitter feed and there they'd be. Sometimes their paths had crossed ever since he'd moved in with that slut from London, and his eyes had been on her. He wanted her. He always had. And now he had left Millwall and come home, and it seemed as though it would be for good. But his love for her was intense. There was an undersea volcano bubbling under that calm exterior, and she'd seen it erupt from time to time, and it wasn't pretty.

She had to admit, he was doing a good job. She watched the young goalkeepers standing in line, each throwing himself to the floor as he booted the ball at them. His body had changed, but his kick hadn't.

When the training session had finished, she took his gloved hand in hers. Her blue eyes met his.

"I've missed you, Kevin," said Sheffield Wednesday.

"You won't have to miss me, anymore," said Kevin Pressman. "I'll always be by your side. You are my club, my dear. And I will always love you. And this time, I'm not going anywhere."


	62. Tentacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Tony Hibbert (Everton), Ross Barkley (Everton), and a tentacle monster

It all started when Tony Hibbert decided to go fishing.

The Everton team had been training intensely in the Portuguese camp, and they had gone to the beach to take a break and, not being one to waste a fishing opportunity, Hibbert had brought his kit with him and encouraged Ross Barkley and Tim Howard to join in, and Roberto Martinez had said yes.

When Hibbert had felt an intense tug on his line, he'd had to ask Howard and Barkley to help him. "Holy shit," exclaimed Howard, "did you catch a goddamn whale or something?" The three men frantically reeled in the line.

Howard had his answer when a slimy green tentacle emerged from the sea and wrapped itself around Barkley's leg. Another tentacle wrapped round his waist, and pulled him into the water.

"A...squid?" was all Hibbert could say. Then the tentacles, and Barkley, emerged from the water, and the entire team and coaching staff stopped what they were doing and stared in a mixture of horror and incredulity.

The owner of the tentacles was still beneath the waves, but it had Barkley in its grasp. The tentacles appeared to be wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his sides, and from what the squad could make out, his shorts had gone. The tentacles lifted him up to reveal that another one was wrapped around his right thigh, and yet another one was snaking its way up his left thigh and, judging by the noises Barkley was making, deep into him.

Barkley's mouth was open, but he wasn't screaming. He was moaning in pleasure. Whatever the creature was doing to him, he was clearly enjoying it.

"Hibbo," cried Leon Osman, "what the fuck IS that thing?"

"Dunno," said, Hibbert, shrugging. "I thought it was gonna be junk, to be honest, la'."

"Shouldn't we help him?" asked Seamus Coleman anxiously.

"No need," said Romelu Lukaku, as Barkley's moans reached fever pitch and another tentacle draped itself round his shoulders. "I don't think he wants help."

Another tentacle slid into Barkley's open mouth. His body stiffened, then went limp as the tentacles loosened their hold and dropped him into the sea. When Howard dragged him out and carried him bridal-style to his team mates, Barkley had what could only be described as a post-coital smile on his face.

"Dirty bastard," muttered Gareth Barry.

"Tony," sighed Martinez, "next time you catch a tentacle monster, please throw it back."


	63. In-Universe Fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team: Manchester United

"What's that you're reading?" Juan Mata asked Romelu Lukaku, his seat mate on the Manchester United team bus. "Is it good?"  
  
"No," said Lukaku, "it's shite. Funny, though." He held up the book he was reading. It had a badly photoshopped picture of a man holding a shovel, standing next to the body of a presumably dead footballer in a red kit. 'Goalkeeper', said the title, in Comic Sans.  
  
Jesse Lingard, who was sitting in front of them next to Marcus Rashford, leaned over his seat. "Why's it got a dead guy on the cover?"  
  
"Because it's a murder mystery, idiot," said Lukaku. "Get a load of this." He read out, "'I'd seen many things in my time as manager of Mulcaster United, but a dead goalie in the team bath was a new one on me...' and then he starts going on about his Jaguar for five pages...'It had all the work of Percy Pootwell, our groundsman.'"  
  
Hearing the terrible novel read in a Belgian accent aroused the interest of the surrounding players who were not plugged into their phones. "Oh go on, Rom," said Rashford. "Read us another."  
  
Lukaku thumbed through the pages of the novel. "'The killer was clearly of Slavic origins; I could tell that by looking at his cheekbones'," he read out. He skipped a few pages, then continued, "'Ali, my Pakistani manservant, believed that women should not be allowed to drive'."  
  
Phil Jones, in the seat across the aisle, did an excellent impression of a startled guinea pig.  
  
"'For breakfast, I had a fried egg, three sausages, a rasher of bacon, baked beans, fried bread, friend mushrooms, and a mug of tea,'" Lukaku read. "'Just the kind of breakfast a man like me needs.'"  
  
"Who wrote this?" asked Jones. "Sam Allardyce?"  
  
"Nah," said Lukaku. "Steve Bruce."


	64. Bellies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players: Phil Jagielka (Everton) x Leighton Baines (Everton)

Jordan Pickford's decision to have tuba lessons had been met with amusement by some of the Everton squad, and confusion by others. In Phil Jagielka's case, it was annoyance, since Pickford had started bringing his tuba to practice and playing it whenever Jagielka got the ball. One time, Jagielka had volleyed the ball into the bell of the giant instrument, and the goalkeeper had responded by blowing so hard that the ball had shot right out, to the amusement of everyone present. Even Duncan Ferguson had smiled.

"Alright, Jordan," he sighed, as he heard the familiar sound honking away behind him. "Joke's getting a bit thin now."

"Unlike some people," muttered Tom Davies, as Jonjoe Kenny and Dominic Calvert-Lewin snorted with laughter. Jagielka glared at him. The little bastard had been getting cockier ever since he'd been given the captain's armband. Davies was saying something to Idrissa Gueye, with a sideways smirk at Jagielka. Jagielka could have sworn he'd heard the word 'pies'. To make matters worse, Marco Silva had been dropping some heavy hints about getting a nutritionist in.

"I blame James Milner," said Gylfi Sigurdsson, as Pickford skilfully dodged a shot from Lucas Digne, while still playing. "He did exactly the same thing in the Anfield Derby last season, followed Ashley around the pitch playing the tuba at him."

"Yeah," added Michael Keane, for the benefit of Richarlison, who had been playing for Watford the previous season and was looking confused. "And Big Sam complained, and the ref said there wasn't anything in the rule book about following fat people with tubas."

 _Fat?_ thought Jagielka. Me? _Who do they think I am, Kevin sodding Pressman?_

 

The sound of the tuba stopped. Pickford was catching his breath. His face was bright red. "Peace at last," said Jagielka. "Are you going to stop now?"

"No," said Pickford, and blew a loud, discordant blast, just to hammer the point home. Theo Walcott, positioned right next to Pickford, clapped his hands over his ears. Pickford smiled maliciously behind his mouthpiece.

All the way back to Finch Farm, Jagielka kicked disconsolately at the ground and wondered about going on a diet. His tracksuit top was taut against the curve of his belly, and with a sinking heart, he noticed just how visible his breasts were and how tight the top felt. Pickford, luckily, had given up his tuba practice for the day and was off talking to Maarten Stekelenburg.

A pair of thin pale arms slipped around Jagielka's waist.

"A bit of extra meat won't do you no harm," murmured a familiar voice in his ear.

Jagielka blushed as Leighton Baines stroked his belly and gave it a gentle squeeze.


	65. Unicorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Kevin Pressman (Millwall) x Jordan Archer (Millwall)

Millwall's training camp, Portugal. A boiling hot day, and what better way to relax after a training session than in the cool blue water of the outdoor swimming pool?

Harry Girling took the nozzle out of the inflatable unicorn out of his mouth and gasped for air. The thing was still flat and he had barely made any difference to it. Jordan Archer had offered to fetch a pump, but Girling stubbornly insisted on blowing it up by mouth, and it was taking him forever. 

"For fuck's sake," he said, exasperated.

"What's the matter?" said a voice behind him. The trio of goalkeepers clustered around the unicorn saw that Kevin Pressman had joined them. Archer was squatting on the ground next to Girling, while Tom King sat on the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water. "It's this fucking unicorn," panted Girling, "it's taking us forever to blow up."

"Give it here," said Pressman, and knelt down as Girling passed him the plastic creature. He put the nozzle in his mouth, took a deep breath, filled his cheeks with air, and blew.

Archer raised his arms above his head and began to do a series of stretches, but he could not take his eyes off Pressman and the unicorn. The unicorn rapidly took shape as Pressman's breath filled it. Other Millwall players wandered past, the hissing sound of air filling the unicorn acting as background music. Archer did a few squats, hoping no-one would notice the tent in his shorts.  

"Gwaan, KP," bellowed King, and in response, Pressman blew even harder. The neck and back of the unicorn straightened. Pressman's shoulders heaved up and down. His face was rapidly turning red with the effort, but still, he kept on blowing, sucking in great lungfuls of air and puffing them out into the unicorn, barely stopping to wipe the spit from his lips. The unicorn grew bigger and bigger, its curves growing as taut as Pressman's belly straining against his tracksuit top and shorts. King's big brown eyes were wide with amazement.

Archer envied the unicorn. All he could think about was Pressman's lips wrapped around his cock, taking the shaft deep into his throat. Pressman's distended cheeks filled with cum instead of air. He had no idea that a fat white man blowing up an inflatable unicorn would arouse him so much. It was partly the fact that Pressman seemed to be actively enjoying the challenge, and was trying to see how much air he could fit into his cheeks and lungs. Archer knew Pressman was competitive, especially when it came to penalties or seeing how far he could kick or throw a ball, but he'd never have envisaged his goalkeeping coach doing battle with a huge pool toy. At the rate Pressman was blowing, it was going to explode.

Pressman poked the unicorn to check how inflated it was. It was almost taut, but he blew into the nozzle a couple more times, just to make sure. He took the nozzle out of his mouth, sealed it, and knocked back the contents of his water bottle.

"Nice one, Kev," said Girling. He pushed the unicorn into the pool and made a jump for it, but his weight was distributed too unevenly, and he fell into the pool. Nonchalantly, he heaved himself back up onto the unicorn.

"I can't believe how fast you blew that thing up," said King, looking at Pressman with adoration in his eyes. Archer glared at him.

"I've had plenty of practice," Pressman said. "I was always having to blow stuff up for my kids. Hey, Jordan," he added, looking at Archer, "are you OK? You look a bit lost."

"Nah, I'm fine," smiled Archer. "Gonna join Harry on that unicorn."

As he prepared to jump into the water, he could have sworn Pressman had winked at him.


	66. Party Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team: Everton

Mid-December, 2018. Preparations for the Everton Christmas party at Finch Farm were well under way.

David Unsworth and Duncan Ferguson, boxes of decorations in their arms, had been charged with decorating a Christmas tree - the club had managed to get a real one this year - and had roped in members of the U23 squad to help, along with Tom Davies and Mason Holgate from the main squad.

"Blue candy canes?" said Holgate, frowning. This year, the club decorations had included blue-and-white striped candy canes, 'to go with the whole Everton mints thing, probably', Unsworth had said.

"What did you expect?" said Davies. "We're not the shite. No red things on this tree."

Elsewhere, other members of the squad had been given the task of decorating. Phil Jagielka, Jordan Pickford, Gylfi Sigurdsson, Theo Walcott and Jonjoe Kenny sat in a circle on chairs and blew up blue and white balloons. Kenny shoved a balloon up his tracksuit top. "Ehh, lads," he said in a terrible impersonation of a Manchester accent, "guess who I am?" Jagielka took one hand off the neck of the balloon he was blowing up and flipped Kenny off. Bernard, the smallest squad member, clambered up a small stepladder, a bunch of balloons in hand, and tied them together with string. At the other end of the room, Idrissa Gueye and Seamus Coleman pinned swags of blue tinsel to the wall.

"Are we done yet?" sighed Kenny. "I'm bored."

"How about a race?" Pickford suggested. "Me, Sigs and Jags. See who can pop their balloon first."

"Go on then," said Jagielka, smiling. "Theo, give us the count off." He and Sigurdsson and Pickford picked up a balloon each, and raised them to their lips.

Walcott raised his arm. "On your marks!" he bellowed. "Get set! Aaaaand...go!"

Other players, wandering in and out, stopped to watch. Both outfield players blew as hard as they could into their balloons, their cheeks distended and their faces bright red with the effort, but Pickford outmatched them both. Within seconds, the white balloon he was blowing up was at full capacity, with a rapidly growing neck as Pickford cupped his hands around his scarlet face. "Must be all that shouting at us," muttered Coleman, who had had an earful from the goalkeeper on many occasions. He jumped as Pickford's balloon exploded, sending white shards flying.

Not to be outdone, Jagielka took an enormous breath, filled his cheeks with air and blew as hard as he could, forcing every bit of air out of his lungs into the balloon. It gave away. Walcott narrowly missed a shard of blue rubber hitting him in the eye.

Finally, an exhausted Sigurdsson blew one final breath into his balloon, and ended the race in third position. He lay back in his chair and gasped for air. "Thank Christ," growled Coleman. "Yous were giving me a headache."

The door opened, and in walked Marco Silva, a white cardboard box in his arms, followed by the other Brazilian and Portuguese squad members. "Looking good, lads," he said. "Come and see what I bring."

The players clustered round Silva, and peered into the box. It was filled with little egg tarts dusted with icing sugar, and the smell of cinnamon wafted through the air. Richarlison, Bernard and Gomes smiled, and Bernard said something in Portuguese.

"What are these?" asked Sigurdsson. "I don't think I've ever seen one."

"They are called pasteis de nata," the manager explained. "We eat them at Christmas." He smiled wistfully. "They remind me of home."


	67. Cats & Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teams: Everton and Liverpool

Sadio Mané wondered if he was having a bad dream.

The away changing room at Goodison Park was filled with dogs of all shapes and sizes, but not a single member of the Liverpool squad was to be found. One minute, he had gone for a piss, and the next, they had vanished and these creatures had been let in, and one of them - a black saluki, fortunately, the only dog not considered to be unclean according to his faith - had taken a fancy to him. Everywhere he looked, there were dogs. Big dogs and small dogs, stocky dogs and slender dogs, black, white, brown, golden, fluffy and spotted dogs, dogs with floppy ears, dogs with pointed ears, tails wagging everywhere, barking, yapping, squealing, whining.

"What is it," he thought aloud, "about this club and dogs? First our manager turns into one, and now this."

The door burst open.

"SIT!" Jürgen Klopp roared. The barking stopped, and every dog in the room sat and looked expectantly at the manager.

"It wasn't me," said Mané. "I go to the toilet and I come back and they were all in here."

Klopp was not fazed. He knew what had happened. After all, it was only a season ago that he had been a dog himself. "I'll deal with this," he said. "I know a thing or two about dogs. Plus, if I call their names, we may be able to find out who is who. Lads," and he turned to address the dogs, "when I call your name, respond."

Mané sat down and laced his boots, and watched his manager shout out random names.

"Allisson!" A Bernese mountain dog with a pair of gloves in his mouth wagged his tail. "Dejan!" A Dalmatian - _well, they are from Croatia,_ Klopp thought - jumped onto the bench. "Mohammed!" The black saluki howled in response. "Roberto!" A brindle Kai Ken barked. "Alberto!" A sandy ball of fluff, revealed to be a Pomeranian, yipped and jumped up onto the bench. "Milly!" A stocky brown Broholmer looked up at Klopp and wagged his tail. "Danny!" A black labrador tentatively raised his paw. "Alex!" A stocky little Staffordshire bull terrier gave an excited bark. "Jordan!" A German shepherd bounded up to Klopp and offered his paw for a shake. And on and on, until the entire Liverpool squad selected for that day had been identified. 

"Somehow," said Klopp, "I don't think we're the only ones having this problem." He indicated towards the corridor, where meowing sounds of various pitches could be faintly heard.

Sure enough, in the home side's changing room, Marco Silva was knee deep in cats, and Leighton Baines was the only squad member present. A white kitten had climbed onto his shoulder, and was sitting there like a pirate's parrot.

"Who let these cats in?" cried Silva. "And where are your team mates?"

"Boss," said Baines, " _these_ are my team mates. And I think I know who two of them are." He picked up a fat tabby cat. "This," he said, "is our captain. Right, Jags?" The tabby purred contentedly, and Baines cradled it lovingly in his arms. The white kitten squeaked. "This little fella," said Baines, "is Tom Davies."

Silva frowned. He was not a cat person. However, if what Baines was saying was anything to go by, the beasts understood human speech. "Take your places!" he barked, and the cats all jumped up onto the benches and positioned themselves under each player's portrait.

A little black cat sat where Idrissa Gueye would normally be sitting. A Siamese cat groomed himself in Theo Walcott's place. A ginger cat, dragging his leg along the floor, climbed up onto James McCarthy's seat, with some difficulty. Gylfi Sigurdsson's place was occupied by a beautiful blue-eyed Egyptian Mau; Cenk Tosun, appropriately, was now a Turkish Angora; Oumar Niasse, now a Bombay, was licking himself; and looking around the room, Silva could see that Seamus Coleman had become another tabby, Mason Holgate was a fluffy smoke-coloured creature, Lucas Digne was a Bengal, and Morgan Schneiderlin was a skinny Abyssinian. A round-headed black cat revealed himself to be Kurt Zouma, while an enormous sleeping bundle of fur turned out to be Yerry Mina. Jagielka climbed down from Baines' lap, picked up a tiny black kitten in his mouth and deposited the kitten in Ademola Lookman's place. Lookman squeaked with gratitude. Baines scritched Davies under the chin and deposited him in his rightful place, saying, "Go on, captain." A slight growl emanated from Jagielka.

 _All very well,_ thought Silva, _but where are the goalkeepers?_

He got his answer when Hugo Oliveira, the goalkeeping coach, came in, carrying two cats in his arms. One, a large, fluffy Maine Coon, seemed content, while the other, a white cat, hissed and spat and wriggled. "Oh, thank God," said Oliveira in Portuguese, "so it's not just these two. This little shit-" and here he pointed to the white cat, who had sprung up onto Jordan Pickford's seat - "bit me."

Pickford growled, as if to say, "Damn right I did, you bastard."

Richarlison, who was now a chocolate Burmese cat, rubbed his head against Silva's leg. Bernard, now a Birman, followed him. Silva sighed. His trousers were covered in cat hair, and he had heard barking coming from the direction of the away changing room. 

This was going to be a very strange Goodison Derby.


	68. Magical Goalkeepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Player: Jordan Pickford (Everton)

What Kyubey hadn't told Jordan Pickford - or, indeed, any magical goalkeeper - was that over time, his Soul Gem would become corrupted. But he'd soon found out. There were no secrets among the Goalkeepers' Union. His senpai, Big Nev, had told him that.

Loris Karius had turned into a witch, right there on the pitch, after his howlers had cost Liverpool two goals, and Simon Mignolet had lost his arm taking Karius down. Iker Casillas, according to the rumours doing the rounds among the Goalkeepers' Union, had little time left. His Soul Gem was almost completely black. Kevin Pressman had witched out, as had Joe Hart, and David de Gea had come close. Pickford was fucked if he was going to become a witch. It wasn't his time.

He sat on the crossbar, the white ribbon in his blond hair blowing in the breeze, and aimed his antitank rifle at the witch circling over Goodison Park. The thing looked like a Liver Bird. Joao Virginia, the youngest of the three goalkeepers, had been tasked with taking out its rabbit familiars with his sickle, and he grimly hacked away at them, in between kicking away the creatures that tried to nibble his legs.

A great shadow loomed over the pitch as Pickford blasted several rounds into the witch's belly. Maarten Stekelenburg backed him up with a thrown lance. It hit the witch in the eye. Pickford, seeing an opening, leapt into the air and shot the witch right in the face. It exploded in a white shower. Pickford caught the Grief Seed with one hand.

"Did you see that, lads?" he shouted down at the other two magical goalkeepers. Virginia gave him the thumbs up. Pickford drained the dark energy from his Soul Gem into the Grief Seed.

Another day, another witch, and he was still safe.


End file.
